


Kiss It Better

by Kanene_Rose



Category: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (2016), Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs
Genre: (Not much honestly), Eventual Sex, Explicit Language, F/F, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Overprotective, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-03-31 00:02:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 36,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13962957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanene_Rose/pseuds/Kanene_Rose
Summary: So, I opened Miss Peregrine/Reader requests on tumblr, and this was my first!Request: Can you write a miss peregrine x reader where the reader get badly hurt and miss p freaks out over her till she gets better. Maybe the reader can have some weird peculiarity. Anyway. You can make it as steamy as you want.(I've changed the rating for this due to a chapter I'm in the process of writing. For those who began reading this as a Teen+ fic, please note that there will be more mature scenes in it. I'm sorry for the change.)Disclaimer: I own none of the plot or characters of the original Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, by Ransom Riggs, nor the subsequent movie by Tim Burton.





	1. Middle-of-Nowhere

To celebrate your graduation, your parents had offered to pay for a few weeks’ stay in Europe. At first, you’d imagined a small apartment overlooking the Seine, or a hotel room in Berlin within walking distance of the infamous wall: history and a killer view, all wrapped up into one. But your parents had something else in mind.

“You’re going to be staying with Auntie Maeve in Cairnholm,” your father stated matter-of-factly, not caring to look up from his morning newspaper. “Her youngest moved out last summer, so she’s letting you use their old room.”

“This is a joke, right?” You didn’t want to sound like an entitled brat, but you felt so cheated. “Don’t you  _ hate _ Cairnholm? You said you never wanted to go back after your last visit.”

“Oh, honey,” your mother cooed, “that was just…Your father and Auntie Maeve never really got along, that’s all. Cairnholm is so beautiful. 

“I know it’s not Paris or London,” she said, stirring sugar slowly into her morning tea, “but you’ll have your own room, and Aunt Maeve works most of the time, so you’ll be left to your own...”

“Plus,” your father interjected, “there’s a lot of history there.”

You smirked...you couldn’t help it. History had been your thing since you were big enough to crack open the ancient encyclopedias your grandma had kept in the attic. It wasn’t your Major, or a part of your career path—admittedly, you didn’t have the best mind for dates, and your guidance counselors had urged you to go into Sociology since you were in seventh grade—but it was a hobby, bordering an obsession. Immediately, your muscles relaxed and you reclined back into your chair.

“You know, they were attacked during one of the World Wars, because they had been hiding something or other—”

“A battery, Frank.”

“A gun battery, that’s right. Thank you,” he continued, grinning triumphantly as he sipped his coffee. “One of the bombs missed and hit an old children’s home on the far side of the island. The ruins are still there, if you want to see them.”

You leaned back in your seat, weighing your options. On one hand, you could take up your friend Emily’s offer: some of the people in your graduating class were staying at her beach house in Florida. It would two weeks of awkward, introverted bibliophiles crammed into the same space as a drunk, obnoxious bunch of student athletes and undergrads. You had already been warned that she was prepared to supply them with alcohol, which didn’t bode well for any of you; the people doing the drinking would be too immature to know when to stop, and the others—yourself included—would feel compelled to clean up their messes. 

On the other hand, you could spend two weeks on a quiet island in Middle-of-Nowhere, Wales, searching through the ruins of a children’s home scattered with German shrapnel and, possibly, the undiscovered remnants of mutilated skeletons. Somehow, the latter still seemed more appealing. 

One thing about Cairnholm was that it only had one working landline and very little cellphone reception. Because of this, you could only really communicate with Auntie Maeve through the post, which made the month before your visit seem to stretch out even longer. The problem was that your father hadn’t actually made any plans with your aunt beforehand—he had simply made the assumption that, with a room to spare, she would be more than happy to have you, which was only partially true—and you found yourself writing a very brief, awkward, impersonal letter (you’d tried to sound as familiar as possible, but it wasn’t easy, since you’d never actually  _ met  _ the woman) only three weeks before you were meant to leave. 

Two weeks later, you received her unenthusiastic reply: 

 

_ (Y/N), _

 

_ I won’t actually be in the country this summer (I’m staying with my oldest son Edmund in Canada to meet his fiancée), but you may find the spare key with my neighbor, George Hanover. My house is open to you for as long as you want, so long as you have no overnight guests, and I’ll trust that you will return the key to George before you return home. _

 

_ Love, and best wishes, _

_ Auntie Maeve _

 

_ P.S. Congratulations on your Doctorate. _

You stuffed the letter into your suitcase; at twenty-six years old, you shouldn’t need your parents’ approval to travel, especially when someone in the area thought it was safe enough to go alone. It would be your first time abroad—a trip  _ long _ overdue—and you weren’t going to let your aunt’s vacation stop you. 

 

The night before your five-hour flight was long and restless. Even though you were exhausted, you couldn’t seem to fall asleep; every time you were close to nodding off, the starlight that filtered into your room seemed to grow brighter, making your eyes snap involuntarily open. You groaned when your alarm went off at five-thirty, then again at five-forty-five. It was only reluctantly that, at six o’clock, you finally resigned yourself to the fact that you needed to get yourself up, showered, and dressed. Your mother drove you to the airport, yawned her good-byes, and then you were on your own, navigating the security check with your eyes only half open. 

It was no surprise to you when you woke up in Wales and realized that you’d slept through the entire flight...you could vaguely remember being woken up by the stewardess during a severe bout of turbulence and asked to put on your seat belt, but you must have fallen asleep again right afterward, because there was nothing else about the actual plane ride that you could recall.You felt slightly better, and you were somehow able to keep your eyes open on the cab ride all the way to the ferry, which would take you the rest of the way to the island.

Of course, with all this travel, you were bound to run into some layover or other: there were nearly two hours between the time you reached the port and the time the last ferry left for Cairnholm. You took this chance to call home. One street from the ferry, you found a small, dingy cafe with a telephone visible from the window. You checked your pockets to make sure you had the proper money on hand, opened the door, and were immediately hit with the realization that everyone was starting at you.

“Excuse me,” you asked at the counter. Your voice was incredibly small. “I was wondering if I could use the telephone.”

The woman was much taller than you, with a gruff voice and long, coarse hair, which she had pulled back into a messy ponytail. She smiled pityingly down at you and gestured over to the phone.

“Aye,” she said in a distinct Scottish accent. “American, yeah?”

“Um, yeah.” 

“Give it a week,” the woman laughed. “You won’t sound like ‘em, but you won’ sound American neither.”

You didn’t know what else to say, so you thanked her and booked it for the phone. The dial ring was incredibly odd, but it made the wait a little more entertaining.

“(Y/N)? Is that you?”

“Yeah, hi, Mom, I just wanted to say that I made it to the ferry safely and I’ll be leaving for the island in a little bit.”

One thing you knew about your mother is that she could talk; you’d only meant to assure her that you were fine and remind her that you’d try to come back to the mainland and call her at the end of the week, but she somehow found a million things to talk about in the time that you’d been gone. Never before had her day had so many interesting details, but you chalked it up to her nervousness: if she didn’t have anything to say, then she’d have to let you leave, and then she wouldn’t hear from you again for at least a week. So you put up with the incessant, sometimes incoherent, rambling for a quarter of an hour.

“I already checked out the docks and made sure I knew where I was going,” you muttered, doing everything in your power not to look at the man who had been waiting impatiently for the phone for the past ten minutes. “Just…save this number to your cellphone. If I call again, I’ll try to do it from here.”

“Why didn’t you just use your cellphone, honey?” 

“I would, but I doubt there’s any place to charge it. This is sort of a back-up, okay?”

You quickly said your I-love-you’s and felt terribly guilty when you had to stop her from starting yet another story (”Oh, I completely forgot to tell you—”), but you squirmed your way out of the cafe, through the muggy streets, and to the ferry, where you were allowed to board half an hour before it was meant to depart. 

 

A fog had settled around Cairnholm, so thick you coudn’t see land until the boat was practically at the dock. It was late in the evening, and much too dark with an impending storm, but you could barely make out the outline of a strange, paper thin mountain peak on the far end of the island. Beside it, the land dipped in, like a bowl, and only flattened out again at the shore; you wondered whether anyone ever tried to climb up to the top and enter the beach that way, or if they preferred to play it safe and avoid that side of the island altogether.

_ Not totally unappealing _ , you thought as you trudged through the streets. Nearly three hours left until the generators were supposed to go out, leaving the entire island in shadow, but there was barely any light as it was; you really couldn’t imagine the village getting any darker. 

You smiled to a few passersby, but they looked to each other, as if in shock, and continued on their way without acknowledging you. George Hanover wasn’t any more friendly: he grunted, handed you the key, and then shut the door in your face without saying a word. You were so glad just to be alone when you arrived at your aunt’s house that you immediately flopped on the spare bed, completely ignoring your empty stomach, and refused to move or turn on any lights until the generators went out at ten o’clock and you realized that you’d have to wait until the next morning to plug in your phone or heat up some food in the microwave.

With nothing else to do, you simply laid there. You hadn’t expected Cairnholm to be especially exciting, but you had hoped it wouldn’t be so… _ depressing _ ; the air outside was wet and dark, the people went out of their way to ignore you, and you had walked up more hills trying to get to your aunt’s house than you’d seen in the past eight years at school. All in all, you were exhausted...You were exhausted physically, from the stress of travel, and you were exhausted  _ emotionally _ . You didn’t know if  you were going to spend the next two weeks in the same sorry, lonely state as you were in right now, or if, by some miracle, you’d find something (or some _ one _ ) that made this whole trip worthwhile. 

And then you remembered that strange side of the island—that bowl, or indentation, that looked completely separate from the rest, as if no one ever bothered to go there. Perhaps, you theorized, that was the sort of adventure you could look forward to: a place you could explore by yourself, far from prying eyes and judging glares, far from the ugly sputtering of generators and the damp, charcoal-colored streets. An island all to itself, where you could hide and play and explore, but close enough to the village that you could come back any time you wanted.


	2. The Fall

“Um, excuse me?” You stood at the entrance of what looked like an old church, but had been converted at some point into...you weren’t entirely sure what. There were large cabinets where the pews should have been, and a few lined up against the walls; at first, it just seemed like a hodgepodge of junk, but you began to notice an array of yellowing documents, hand-drawn maps, and old fishing equipment. By the time the curator had noticed you and come over to introduce himself, you had completely forgotten what you’d gone in there to find out. “I didn’t know Cairnholm had a  _ museum _ .’

“Yep,” he said, his accent heavy. “What can I do for you?” 

“Oh, um,” you stuttered, shaking your head. You didn’t consider yourself shy—antisocial, or introverted, perhaps, but you usually were able to keep your composure around strangers. Right now, however, you were a little flustered; while his accent was beautiful, it made it difficult to figure out exactly what he was saying and, rather than staying to chat and explore the museum (like you were  _ so _ tempted to do), you wanted to get out of there before you had to admit that you couldn’t understand him. “Do...do you know the old children’s home? It, um, it was bombed during the war.”

“I think I know what you’re talking about,” he said, smiling. “It’s on the other side of the island, past the bog and through the woods. Though I wouldn’t go mucking about up there alone, if I was you. Stray too far from the path and that’s the last time anyone’ll hear of you.”

You only made out half of what he said, but you  _ knew _ you’d heard the words “other side of the island’ and “woods,” and that was good enough for you. 

“Perfect, thanks,” you muttered, dodging out of the door as naturally as possible. 

You had learned the night before that Cairnholm could get  _ cold _ , so you were wearing a sweatshirt over a long-sleeved shirt and had an extra jacket packed in your old school book bag, which you’d slung over your shoulder. You had also packed your cellphone, a small lunch and snack, a few bottles of water, your camera, a book (why not?) and an extra pair of sneakers. All in all, you thought you were pretty well prepared for a day’s hike…

The only problem was that you weren’t used to terrain that was so  _ hilly _ . Up one steep ridge, down another, across a wet field, up another ridge—after what seemed like hours, you finally came upon what looked like a foggy, wooded swamp. Not a hundred feet away, on the opposite side of a soupy, land-pocked marsh, was an ancient, grey cairn.

_ This must be the bog the curator was talking about _ , you thought, pressing ever further into the mud. 

You didn’t know  _ how  _ you were so certain you were in the right place, or why you did what you did next, but you searched the ground for stronger footing and inched ever closer toward the cairn, until you found a ring of solid earth again. You fished your cellphone out of your bag, turned the brightness up all the way, and used it to peer inside of the stone structure. 

It was a simple, rounded shelter, with a narrow tunnel—which, you figured, probably only led to yet another room like this one. It was not at all extraordinary or inviting in any way, but you felt the strange urge to go inside it, as if the children’s home or some other great adventure were on the other side, waiting for you. 

The tunnel itself was short, so you had to squat down and crab-walk through some parts, but it didn’t take long to make it to the other side of the cairn. It was another room. That was it. Nothing special, nothing to find, except for few indiscernable heiroglyphs carved into the stone wall. You felt a bit of excitement drain from you as you stood and brushed the dust off of your clothes. 

It wasn’t until you were outside of the cairn that you realized the sky had cleared. Instead of the thick fog and the clouds that had threatened rain just minutes ago, the sun was now shining through, illuminating the field before you in bright, golden light. 

And there it was—the house. You were so excited to see it that you almost didn’t notice the children playing in the yard, or the woman opening one of the windows on the second story to let in the gentle breeze. You deflated again; this wasn’t the children’s home...not the right one, at least. Not the one that’d been turned into ruins during an air raid  _ decades _ ago. 

Unless they’d repaired it and began living there again, but hadn’t your father said all of the residents had died? And why would they bother to rebuild the house, when it was so far away from the rest of the people of Cairnholm? No, this couldn’t be the place. And if it was, you weren’t sure you were willing to endure a conversation in order to find out more about the war. 

Instead of ringing the doorbell and asking (like you’d imagined any  _ normal _ person would do) you simply walked through the woods behind the house, careful to stay out of anyone’s sight, and over the next ridge. You kept climbing until you could no longer hear or see any of the children. 

 

One of the great things about being alone was that you could do anything you wanted without being afraid of other people’s judgements. You found a quiet spot on the side of the mountain (you were  _ not _ up for any more climbing, at least until dinnertime) and took a few pictures of the ocean on one side of the ridge before settling down with your book. It was one of your favorites, and you were so engrossed in it that it took you a while to register the fact that someone was watching you. 

At first, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you—you’d thought you’d seen a girl standing in the clearing not thirty feet below. But it had to be your imagination...there was no one there. Why would there be? You went back to reading your book, glancing out of the corner of your eye every now and again, still feeling someone’s eyes on you. Suddenly, you felt self-conscious. You must have looked ridiculous, you thought, perched on the side of a mountain, laying carefully on the only flat footing in sight, a book in one hand and a backpack tucked in the crook of one elbow. If anyone  _ had _ seen you, they would think you were insane. 

But no one was there, or so you told yourself. You held on tighter to your bag and brought your book closer to your chest, forcing yourself to relax further into the mountainside. 

Until a branch snapped.

You shot up, clutching your things to you chest. 

There was a definite pause; you held your breath, and you imagined you could feel someone else doing the same. 

Another branch broke.

You stood.

More footsteps, but you couldn’t figure out whether they were coming from in front of or behind you. You decided to run downward—it would be fastest, after all. A few steps, a few misteps. You felt a searing pain shoot through your ankle and you reached out to grab something, anything, to keep you from falling. 

Your hand caught a branch, and your arm was pulled back as your body continued to go forward, breaking the tree limb as you fell, but not before you could register another sharp pain, this time traveling from your elbow to your shoulder. Your other hand came up to cover your face...and that was all you could remember.


	3. The Girl in the Loop

“Miss Peregrine!” Emma screamed. “Miss Peregrine!”

The headmistress ran to meet her at the edge of the yard, where the teenage girl stopped to catch her breath and leaned into the older woman. 

“Miss Bloom, are you alright?” Alma asked, searching you for any visible harm. “Calm down, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

“There’s a girl in the loop!” Emma cried. “She fell, she’s not moving, I don’t know if she’s okay.” 

“Mr. O’Connor!” the ymbryne called; she hadn’t seen him outside for some time and she was worried he wouldn’t be able to get to them fast enough—or, at least, fast enough to satisfy Emma, who was now clutching at Alma’s top as if it were the only thing keeping her up. 

Enoch had been downstairs, searching for a jar of mouse hearts in the pantry cupboard. When he heard his name being called, he placed the glass jar down begrudgingly and poked his head through the back door.

“I could use your assistance,” Miss Peregrine said, nodding toward Emma. 

That certainly knocked the sardonic sneer from his face. Enoch ran to her side as quickly as he could; he assumed she wanted him to take care of Emma, who was still sobbing and was now beginning to hiccup, but instead she asked him to follow her into the woods beyond their property. 

Emma led the way. Even in her heavy shoes, she outstripped her headmistress and her friend alike, making it to your body before either of them had even spotted you. 

“She’s bleeding, I don’t know what to do!” Emma cried. “She was all the way up there when she fell. She won’t answer me, I think she’s unconscious.” 

“Miss Bloom,” Alma said, kneeling down beside you. She gave Enoch a pointed look.

“Emma,” he muttered, placing his hands on her shoulders, “why don’t you give her some space? Miss P and I will get her back to the house safely.” 

It took some convincing, but Emma finally left; she hovered five feet away, pacing back and forth and chewing on her nails. 

“Is she…” Enoch whispered.

Alma wrapped her hand gently around your wrist and sighed. 

“She’s  _ very _ alive, there’s no reason to be so anxious,” she said, “But with that ankle twisted like it is, and that arm...I’ll need all the help I can get to move her. Emma?”

“Yes?” the girl perked up at her name.

“Go back to the house, please.”

“But Miss Pere—”

The headmistress held up one hand.

“Go back to the house and ask Olive to fetch some towels from the upstairs bathroom. Not many. We only need two or three,” she said, looking down once again at the girl who lay motionless at her knees. “We’ll need a bed prepared. Bronwyn might also be a bit useful.”

“Of course!” Emma said. She gave Enoch one last, pleading look before darting off toward the house. 

“Now, I have to make sure I won’t do any harm…” Alma said, running a hand gently down your spine. “Nothing seems out of place, so I think we can flip her over. You might want to look away, Mr. O’Connor.” 

Enoch swallowed, but did not turn away. He leaned forward, holding your head and neck steady while Miss Peregrine slowly lifted one of your shoulders. 

“This might be dislocated,” she muttered under her breath. “Could you?”

Enoch let go of your head to hold your arm instead, minding the few places where it’d been scratched or, possibly, broken.

“Thank you.”

The headmistress  reached carefully underneath your stomach for better leverage and was finally able to get you on your back. The arm that had been tucked underneath you was covered in cuts, but seemed to be otherwise unharmed. 

“Thank goodness,” Alma sighed, “she had her face covered. This bone might be bruised, though. I can’t quite tell.”

But Enoch was watching something in the distance.

“Don’t let Emma see her leg,” he said. 

Until then, Alma hadn’t noticed the gash that ran along your outer thigh; your jeans were soaked in blood and more came pouring out as she watched, horrorstruck. 

“That is why I had her bring the towels,” she explained, her voice barely above a whisper. 

To Enoch, she sounded defeated, which was a strange intonation to hear coming from such a strong, confident woman. Your blood did very little to scare him—he was nothing if not a pessimist, but he’d seen people recover from  _ far  _ worse injuries than the ones you sported—but it was his ymbryne’s own palpable concern for you that caused him to worry. If Miss Peregrine was scared, then there was definitely something wrong.

 

Bronwyn was much too young to deal with something so bloody, but there was no other way for them to get you back quickly and  _ safely _ . Having multiple people handling various sections of your body was definitely not the best way to transport you—cuts could open up, breaks could get aggravated, etc.—so Miss Peregrine felt like she had no choice but to hide the wounds as much as possible and position you in Bronwyn’s arms; the little girl could carry you all the way to the bed without doing any damage. That was the hope, anyway. 

The bed they had prepared was one the second floor (Miss Peregrine was livid, but the children insisted that, since it was Bronwyn who was carrying you anyway, there was no problem with getting you up the stairs) and the ymbryne had you set down before banning any of the children from the room. Emma, her eyes still red and swollen, was the last to leave.

“Miss Bloom, I’ll trust you and Miss Elephanta will take care of dinner,” Alma said, backing her charge toward the door. “And if you would please ask Mr. O’Connor to take the children on their daily walk.” 

“Of course,” Emma said, standing just inside the doorframe. She knew that her headmistress was trying to make her leave, but she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of you. You were bloody and unconscious and breathing funny and it was all her fault for scaring you like she did. She hadn’t meant for this to happen...

“And watch the children for me while I—”

“Of course, Miss Peregrine,” she mumbled, finally turning around and disappearing into the hall. 

 

The moment Emma made it to the landing, the headmistress shut the door and hurried inside; she took immediately to unbandaging the towels and cleaning any open wounds she could see, but something kept nagging at her. She knew that she’d eventually have to change you out of the clothes you were wearing—they were filthy and bloody, and it was possible that you could get infected—but she was pushing that part off as long as possible. 

For what? She had no clue. It wasn’t like her to be shy or awkward around another person’s body. Of course, she  _ preferred _ that everyone dress according to what she considered proper, but nakedness, especially in cases like this, never so much as made her bat an eye. But now, she was hesitant—afraid, even, if that were possible—and this newfound aversion to her duties as an ymbryne was unsettling in and of itself. 

She finished cleaning the gash on your leg and realized she was stalling. With a final glance to see if you had stirred, she reached up to your waist and began undoing your pants.

You gave a weak groan. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, slipping the jeans carefully off your hips. 

Nothing terrible so far. Not even a bruise. She shimmied them further until they began to resist, and she realized that some of the blood had acted as a weak adhesive, sticking the damp material to your skin. If she continued to just  _ pull _ , as she was doing now, then she could possibly aggravate the cut she’d just cleaned so delicately.

It took nearly five minutes for Alma to unstick the denim from the area around the cut, but she was eventually able to slide the material easily down your legs and around your ankles. Though she was working as carefully as she could, every now and again you would groan, and, each time, she could feel the pain growing in her chest: she hated to think that this could be hurting you. 

Your shirt, unfortunately, had to be cut. There was no way for her to maneuver it around your injuries, especially not with a possible dislocated shoulder, but she needed to make sure there was nothing hidden underneath. She checked your shoulders and ribs for anything visibly wrong, and was satisfied that you’d made it out with only a bruise on your, um...on your chest. The sight made sympathy pain shoot through her own breast; she had to reach up and hold it tight against her for a moment before the feeling would pass.

At this point, you hadn’t done more than groan; your limbs stayed wherever they’d been placed and your breathing had been regular, for the most part. You could barely register the pain, but, with nothing on, save the gauze Alma was now wrapping carefully around your thigh, you  _ did _ recognize that you were cold. You opened one eye and peeked at the woman, but the entire room was a blur, and all you could make out was a shadowy, blue-grey figure looming over you. 

“I’m cold,” you rasped sleepily. The mattress beside you dipped and you felt the weight of the blanket as she pulled it up your body. Your leg was sore, as well as both of your arms, but, at the moment, you thought nothing of it; the worst pain was in your head, and it was making you incredibly tired, like your migraines often do. “Thank you.” 

And with that, you nodded back to sleep. 

Dinner that night was silent. None of the children wanted to ask their headmistress what had happened and Alma had no desire to discuss it. She wondered if you’d have to be taken out of the loop somehow in order to get proper medical treatment, or if she’d overestimated the extent of your injuries. Whatever the case, she could not get her mind off of you; she excused herself from the meal and made her way upstairs, promising to be back in time for Reset...other than that, and a brief good-night, her children did not see her until the next morning. She stayed by your side all night in case you woke up while she was asleep and only left when it was time to prepare breakfast.


	4. Miss Peregrine

You woke up to a soft tune playing right beside your ear and a dull throb in your head. You tried to open your eyes, but the world was blurry and you closed them again, hoping to shut out the terrible migraine pounding against the inside of your skull. 

“Are—are you awake?” a woman asked, placing a hand on your forehead. “I could have sworn I saw you open your eyes.”

You took a deep breath and you rasped out an unintelligible “Yes,” before wincing. Everywhere seemed to be hurting, and the pain hit you suddenly, all at once. You tried to pull your arms to you, but only one would move. 

“Shhhh, calm down,” the woman whispered, placing a hand gingerly on your wrist and guiding it back to the bed. “Please, you’re alright, but you have to be careful. You took a nasty fall.”

“My head,” you croaked, feeling tears gather at the corners of your eyes.

You practically jumped when the woman ran her thumb along your bottom eyelid. 

“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll...I’ll get you something for your headache.”

You could hear her heels click as she walked behind you; while normally your hearing wasn’t the best, every step sounded like thunder and more tears threatened to fall. She stood there for a few moments—doing what, you weren’t certain—then stepped into the hall beyond and closed the door behind her, leaving you in blissful silence. You wanted nothing more than to forget all of the pain and fall back to sleep, but you had to force your eyes open—force yourself to face reality and look at the cuts, bruises, and broken bones that stung so vibrantly. 

You had never been good with pain, but you  _ did _ have a rather convenient abnormality that had helped you through countless other injuries. All you had to do now was open your eyes and endure the pain of moving the parts that felt the most sore. 

You peeked first at your right arm; it was the one that wouldn’t move. You wondered whether or not the shoulder was dislocated, but you could still wiggle your fingers, albeit slowly, so perhaps you’d only tore a muscle or something...Either way, the arm, for now, was useless, and you’d have to come back to it later. 

Next you spotted the cut that ran from your left elbow halfway to the wrist on the outside of your forearm. There was no way for you to heal it without first undoing the bandages, but there was also no way for you to reach them with your left hand. You brought that arm across your stomach, wincing at the sudden dull pain in your chest, and unwrapped the gauze with sluggish fingers. When the gash could finally breathe, you licked your lips, took a deep breath, and brought your arm in front your face. 

_ I can’t believe I’m going to do this, _ you thought, pressing your lips to the cut. The skin hissed as if it’d been doused in acid, but the pain quickly diminished and you looked down at a clean suture. It was still little sore, and you knew it wouldn’t be fully healed for another couple of days, but it was  _ a lot _ better than it had been. 

You sat up as best as you could, ignoring the creaking of your spine, and shimmied the sheets off of your legs. A thin, white bandage had been wrapped around your thigh and you’d nearly bled it completely through. You unwrapped it gently with your ‘good’ arm and winced at the sight.

“Fuck,” you cried. You knew there was a chance that someone would hear you and come in to see what had happened, but you couldn’t help it, the gash was so disgusting. 

Rather than try to bend over (probably killing your back in the process), you spent the next few minutes bringing your good hand to your mouth, kissing it, and wiping the acid on the cut. It was almost completely mended when you realized that someone was watching you again. 

You turned slowly around, one hand lingering on the last open part of the gash, and tried your best not to bawl. There was a woman standing in the doorway with a mug of tea and a few large, white pills. She paused for a moment, sweeping her wide eyes over your shoulders, back, and legs—which, you realized with horror, were all completely exposed—and quickly shut the door behind her. 

You stopped breathing.

You knew how bad this looked—naked, limbs at awkward, stiff angles, smears of red around your mouth and on your hand. The only other person who’d ever seen you heal anything like this was your roommate Emily, and, at first, she’d thought you were actually trying to taste the blood. She stayed around for an explanation (thank goodness), but you might not be so lucky this time.

“Hello,” the woman said, placing the tea and pills on the nightstand beside you. Her eyes sweeped your body once again, but she seemed otherwise unconcerned with the situation. “My name is Alma Peregrine.”

Her voice was soft and deep, and her accent made you weak. You wanted to relax backward into the bed, but you couldn’t move, not while she was looking at you with such beautiful blue eyes. It took you a moment to realize that she was expecting a response. 

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N),” you croaked. Fuck, you sounded pathetic.

“Since you’re upright,” she said, “may I take a quick look at your shoulder?”

You didn’t know what to say. She watched you for a moment, assessing whether or not your silence was meant to be a form of approval, and maneuvered around you, so that she was sitting between you and the head of the bed. You could feel her hesitancy. Then the warmth of her breath on your back. 

The weight shifted to the edge of the mattress and you felt a chill run down your spine. 

“You should lay down,” Alma said.

You did as told and she handed you the pills and tea she’d placed on the nightstand.

“This should help with your head…” she paused, glancing at the scar on your leg. “That is, if it’s still—”

“They’ve only closed up,” you mumbled. “The pain is still...everywhere. Thank you.”

“Of course, dear,” she stayed on the edge of the bed, right beside your hip. You don’t know where she’d gotten the face cloth from, but she was bringing it up to your mouth as you watched, unable to move. “If you don’t mind,” she whispered, running it gently across your bottom lip. 

Alma seemed completely unphased, but you were having trouble breathing. She was too beautiful, and a bit too close—her pale skin and pink lips, curled into a delicate smile, made your heart flutter, and you could smell the subtle, flowery perfume on her neck. 

You didn’t know what bothered you most: the fact that this woman was getting in your head, or the fact that she was somehow taking precedence over all of the pain that had consumed your thoughts only moments before. 

She gently dabbed your upper lip and smiled, meeting your eyes.

“All clean,” she said. “That’s an extroardinary Peculiarity you have, Miss (Y/L/N).” 

“It’s just (Y/N). The ‘Miss’ is a bit too formal for me.” 

You tried to reach for the sheets, but Alma saw what you were trying to do and stopped you. Instead, she examined the cut on your leg—which was now nothing more than a thin, bubbled scab—and replaced the sheets herself, bringing them all the way up to your shoulders. 

“The muscle is definitely torn,” Alma sighed.

“What?” 

“Your shoulder,” she explained, walking over to an ancient armchair in the corner.  At first, you worried that she was going to take a seat, so far away, but she grabbed it by the back and lifted—slowly, with a solid determination  _ not _ to show how heavy and unmanageable it was for her—and carried it all the way to your bedside. 

Your vision was still a bit blurry, but you could just barely make out a small, round table beneath the window, where the armchair had just been, on top of which was stacked a neat pile of books, parchment, and something that resembled an old smoking pipe. Alma sat within arms’ reach, crossed her legs at the ankle, and smiled. 


	5. The Nonexistent Love Life

Emma and Olive had been put in charge of making lunch (with a little help now and again from their ymbryne) and Enoch volunteered to take the rest of the children on their daily walk some time after the meal. It was the first time their headmistress had been so distracted by one of their guests and it made the youngest children a bit too curious; she’d already caught Millard trying to sneak into your room while you were sleeping and found Hugh and Horace pressing their ears up against the door several times. 

“No one is to disturb her, do you understand me?” Miss Peregrine stated, taking her seat at the head of the table.

“Yes, Miss P,” Fiona said, staring down guiltily at her plate. 

“Is she going to be alright?” Little Claire asked. “Is she Peculiar?”

“Of course she is,” Bronwyn answered. All day, she’d been practically bouncing up and down, she was so excited to have a new friend, and now was not an exception. “She’s in the loop, that means she’s like us!”

“She hasn’t mentioned her Peculiarity to me,” Alma said, silencing the children. “I have no reason to believe she understands what it is, nor do I think she has ever stepped foot in another time loop. Until we have discussed it, I don’t want any of you showing off,” as she said this, she glared pointedly at Hugh, who had a habit of setting his bees free at the most inconvenient times, and then at Millard, who, when he wasn’t using his Peculiarity to eavesdrop, liked to parade around the house naked and pop out at unsuspecting victims. “I will bring the topic up when I think she’s capable of handling it.” 

“But what about the Reset?” Olive piped up in her small, sheepish voice. “Won’t that be a bit traumatic, if she doesn’t know what’s happening?” 

Alma had considered this. She was hoping that you’d sleep through the Reset again, as you’d done the night before, but Olive was right; there was too much risk now that you’d started to heal. 

 

Her children weren’t the only ones who were given strict instructions. In the short time she’d spent with you (while you were awake, that is), Alma had made it clear that you were not supposed to get out of bed without her, unless it was an emergency, in which case you had permission to lean on either Enoch, Emma, or Olive. None of the younger children were allowed to assist you with walking, because they wouldn’t have the strength or height to prop you up—though, she did admit, they would try their hardest. 

So far, you hadn’t actually met anyone but Alma, and you had a feeling that she was keeping them out of your way, much to your chagrin. You were bored out of your mind. 

After lunch was finished, Alma joined you once again in your room upstairs, this time carrying a long, white night dress from her own wardrobe.

“I’m afraid it might be a little tall for you,” she apologized, holding it up for you to see, “but it will be better than nothing. How are you feeling?”

“A lot better, thanks,” you yawned. You’d slept most of the day up until now and you were afraid that Alma would misinterpret your yawn as a need for more rest. If anything, you wanted to get up and walk, but that was definitely out of the question. You gestured over at the empty tray on the nightstand. “Lunch was delicious.”

“I’ll be sure to pass the compliment on to Misses Bloom and Elephanta,” she smiled, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “If you need any help getting this on…”

“I should be fine, Alma,” you smiled. “But thank you. I’m just a little worried that it’ll be too tight.”

Alma was a thin woman. You could probably wrap one of your arms all the way around her waist and still have room between you. So when you’d made that comment, you meant to imply that you thought that the dress might get caught around your stomach or upper arms, but you couldn’t help but notice that the ymbryne looked immediately to your chest. Her already-pale cheeks blanched and she quickly turned away. 

“I don’t think it should be a problem,” she said, placing the dress on your lap. 

You covered your grin and pretended to yawn, if only to save her a bit of embarrassment. When you had smoothed your smirk into a placid pucker (your cheeks still a bit hot), you reached out for the nightdress and pulled it over your head, then slid your arms through one at a time. It was a bit snug around your shoulders and ribs, but not at all a bad fit. 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s the least I could do,” she said, taking a seat in her armchair. 

So far, Alma had proved to be of strong character: she was incredibly stubborn, protective, and confident. You had only really known her for a few hours now, but you could tell that something was off when her eyes flickered down at her hands, which she had folded in her lap. It was a brief moment of insecurity—or concern, you couldn’t tell which—and it spoke volumes both to her restraint and to the severity of whatever she was about to say.

“I need to discuss something with you.” Her voice was smooth, almost flawless; if she didn’t sound so serious, you thought you could melt. “I’ve had this conversation so many times, at least once with all of my children—all except for Enoch, who came to me from another home in London. But I—”

“What do you mean?” you interjected. You hadn’t meant to interrupt, but that statement caught you off guard; she’d only mentioned her children when she was giving you instructions not to let them help you, and you’d just assumed that they were her own. “He came to you from...from another home?”

“This is a children’s home,” Alma smiled, “and though I love my charges dearly, I cannot claim to be their mother.”

“I just thought…” your voice trailed off. You could feel the blush burning your cheeks and ears. 

“I’m simply their headmistress. Some of them were brought to me by other headmistresses, who thought they would make a good addition to our family here,” she beamed, looking through the window. You were at a very different angle, so you could only make out the edge of the forest surrounding the house, but Alma’s eyes were wide and her expression soft; she was fond of whatever, or whoever, she saw, and you ached to be looked at that way. “Others, like Emma, I found myself. They’re all a bit different...They all know what it’s like to be ostracized and abused. That is why they are here: a home for Peculiar children.”

“If you’re afraid I’m gonna treat them badly because they’re a little different, don’t be,” you said, pulling Alma’s attention back to you. “I mean, we’re all a little weird, aren’t we?”

The corners of her mouth twisted up into a delicate smile. 

“While that is true, my children and I are what you would call Peculiar,” she confessed easily, her proper posture and stiff visage unphased. 

“You’ve said that twice now…‘Peculiar.’ What does that mean?” 

“It’s a recessive gene passed down through families, though there can be many generations without a single Peculiar child,” she explained, taking out an ancient, ornate pocket watch. “They should be returning any minute now, if they’ve kept the pace I set for them.” 

You had realized by now that Alma was rather obsessed with time; she seemed to only leave your side to remind her children that certain activities should be starting soon, or should have already started, and she often spoke rapidly, as if the conversation were lasting longer than permitted. You’d never known someone who was so strict about their schedule. Sometimes you wanted to remind her that they were only children and that they should be allowed to play and have fun without worrying about the clock, but you didn’t want to come off rude, especially when she’d been so kind to you.

“I would like to introduce you to them, if I could, so that you could understand the breadth of their Peculiarities.”

“Of course,” you sighed. You’d been waiting to meet them since Alma had brought you lunch; it was then that your boredom had hit you, having already slept as long as your body would allow and realizing that you were going to be without company for the duration of the meal. “That would be wonderful.”

 

The bedroom in which you’d been placed was too small to have all of the children in there at once. Since the only other option was to move you to a downstairs room, which Alma unequivocally would not allow, she decided to introduce you to the children in groups. When she heard them come in from their daily walk, she excused herself to fetch her youngest charges, leaving the door open for the first time since you’d arrived. She appeared in the doorway several minutes later with two little girls marching several steps ahead and a third hiding timidly behind her skirts.

“Hello,” you beamed. 

“Hi,” the first said, coming right up to the side of your bed to shake your hand. She was thin with an adorable crooked-tooth smile and freckles. Her brunette hair was pulled into two tight pigtails on either side of her head and you could tell from the slight stain on her knees and the matching tint on her palms that she’d been playing in the dirt and told to brush it off before coming up to see you. “My name is Fiona Frauenfeld.”

“Bronwyn,” the other smiled. She was slightly shorter, but she nearly crushed your pinky when you shook hands. “Sorry.” 

You must have winced.

“It’s fine, sweetie,” you laughed. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N). It’s very nice to meet you.” 

Alma was grinning down at you; it took her a moment, but she finally realized she had been staring, and a beautiful pink blush rose up on her pale cheeks. 

“This is Claire,” she said, ushering the smallest girl from behind her legs; you could barely make out Claire’s round, blue eyes through her mess of golden curls. “There’s no reason to be nervous, sweetheart, why don’t you go say hello?” 

The little girl looked timidly up at her headmistress.

“It’s alright,” Alma assured her. 

“Claire’s just afraid because Miss Peregrine wants to show you her back mouth,” Fiona said matter-of-factly. “She thinks you won’t like her if you see it.” 

“Fiona.”

“Sorry, Miss Peregrine,” she muttered. With a quick look around the room, she turned back to her ymbryne and asked, “Are we allowed to sit on the bed?”

“Well, of course,” you answered, patting the mattress beside you. You tried to lift yourself carefully using your arms, but the pain in your shoulder was too great. You hissed. “I’ll make you some room.”

“You most certainly will not,” Alma snapped.

You could hear the venom (and was that worry?) in her tone, but that did nothing to deter you. If anything, now you wanted to move even more, just to prove that you could. You rolled your shoulders forward. 

“Miss (Y/L/N), I insist,” Alma fussed, but little Claire was still holding tight to her skirts and there was nothing, so far, that she could do to stop you from moving as you pleased. “You’re going to aggravate—”

But by now, you’d sat completely upright and used what coordination you had in your legs to shift sideways. Your feet dangled over the edge of the bed and there was space enough for the children on either side of you. Neither Fiona nor Bronwyn were shy; they both took the opportunity to pull themselves up onto the mattress, the latter using Alma’s armchair as a stepping stool. Quickly, they settled in, one by your pillows, the other sitting cross-legged where your own had been just moments before. 

Alma looked livid, but only for a fraction of a second. She smoothed her skirts, straightened her back, and took a seat in her armchair as if nothing was amiss.

“Come here, Claire,” she said, lifting the youngest onto her lap. 

“There seems to be enough space for a few more,” you dared suggest, gesturing at the half-empty bed and window, under which you could still see the distinct, odd outline of an old smoking pipe. “If you want to invite—”

“No,” Alma said abruptly. Her smile was pleasant enough, but the warning in her glare gave you reason enough to keep quiet. 

All three of the girls had caught on to the tension between you and their ymbryne, but, rather than stay silent and allow the adults to do...whatever it was they were doing...they decided to continue on as if nothing unusual had taken place. Fiona laid back onto your pillows and made herself comfortable.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Twenty-six.” You laughed, catching the genuine astonishment in the little girls’ eyes. “I know, I’m ancient.”

“Twenty-six means that you’re an adult,” Fiona stated matter-of-factly. There was a self-satisfied grin beginning to curl at the corners of her mouth. “Which means that you can get married!”

“Fiona!” Bronwyn giggled. 

“Miss Frauenfeld.”

Alma’s tone was as firm as ever (and almost frightening, if you did say so yourself), but Fiona couldn’t help but laugh. Actually, all three girls were amused. Even Claire, who had been half-hiding in Alma’s shoulder, was now looking up at her headmistress and grinning ear to ear. There was definitely something you were missing. 

“If you don’t mind,” the headmistress said, tightening her grip protectively around Claire’s waist, “I brought you three in here to introduce Miss (Y/L/N) to your Peculiarities, not to intrude into her love life.”

“Nonexistent.”

Alma paused. 

“I—sorry?”

“My nonexistent love life,” you smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “But continue.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “We—we need to discuss Peculiardom. Dinner is in a one hour and thirty-seven minutes, and I refuse to allow the girls to prepare another meal for me.”

Fiona tugged on your sleeve.

“Nobody cooks like Miss Peregrine,” she said with a slight lisp. “Are you going to be staying for supper?”

“Well, of course I am.”

“Maybe you could come and watch us in the garden!” Bronwyn piped up, leaning over your lap, as if you weren’t already paying her full attention. She was adorable and sweet, even a bit overenthusiastic for a task that sounded so mundane. But you got the feeling that there was something incredibly special about her daily chores besides the illusion and wonderment that came with such a young and vibrant imagination. “Tonight, Fiona’s making one of the potatoes grow, and I’ve got to carry it inside.”

Alright, maybe you were wrong. Maybe their chores were simply mundane. You looked to Alma, who was smiling brightly.

“Fiona has the ability to make plants grow,” she said, fixing Claire’s skirts. “Every afternoon, she has the task of growing the vegetable for dinner.”

“Vegetable? As in...singular?”

“Yes, vegetable. Though sometimes, I’ll admit, the children do get tired of having such large portions and I’ll ask Fiona to fetch several, smaller things.” Alma examined her pocket watch and frowned, then replaced it in her jacket. “She also shaped all of the beautiful topiaries in the back yard. When you’re feeling up to it, I wouldn’t mind showing you around.”

“You...you mean…” your voice trailed off. You thought Alma was insinuating that Fiona had actually grown the vegetables, which, semantically, doesn’t sound at all like an impressive feat, but the way she said it…

No, she couldn’t mean...

/ But what if she did? What if Fiona had actually _made_ the garden grow, and _made_ the topiaries form, like some sort of adorable, cockney Poison Ivy? But if you asked and you were wrong, then you ran the risk of sounding insane.

“I don’t understand,” you chose to admit instead.

Alma nodded to her charge, who took a handful of seeds out from her shirt pocket and placed them on the nightstand. Fiona then sat up on her knees, adjusting her position as the mattress dipped and creaked beneath her, and put both hands out. With open palms, fingers extended, in a sort of semi-circle around the seeds, knees bent and legs open at strange angles, she looked defensive, as if she was expecting some sort of heavy blow that would knock her out of her stance. Her lips formed a thin, straight line and her eyes narrowed; she was concentrating hard, but, for what reason, you weren’t sure. You had been paying so much attention to Fiona herself that you almost didn’t notice what her odd behavior was supposed to induce.

On the nightstand, the little, yellow-brown seeds had begun to quiver. There was no reason for them to move; the table itself was quite still and no one had moved to touch them. But still, they shook, quickly shedding their outer skin and producing long, gangly vines no thicker than blades of grass. You thought that was the end of it—what she had done already was so amazing, and there was very little room left for the vines to grow, unless the headmistress was about to let Fiona cover the possessions that had been left on the table’s surface—until the first bud began to grow, then another, and another, until there was a patchwork of thick, green bulbs among the duller vines. These, too, began to shiver and, within seconds, they were blooming. 

Fiona sat back on her haunches and put her hands in her lap. She smiled up proudly first at you, then her headmistress, who nodded back with a soft smile.

“What are those?” you asked. You could feel a gentle blush creep up your cheeks and forehead, but it was from astonishment this time, instead of embarrassment. “They’re beautiful.”

“Lilies,” Fiona said. “They grow down near the pond.”

They were so small—you didn’t know much about flowers, but you were pretty sure that Fiona hadn’t grown them to their full size. Still, even in their youth, they were strong, each with six thick, triangular petals that curled delicately outward. 

“They look like stars.” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the comment was received relatively well: Fiona beamed, Claire and Bronwyn continued to stare at the nightstand, despite the fact that everything had stopped moving and growing, and Alma’s eyes fell once again on you. When you spoke next, it was to her. “Beautiful.” 

Alma didn’t blush, which was disappointing, but you delighted in the way she seemed to stiffen, adjusting Claire on her lap and sporting a lopsided grin, which she attempted to hide by turning toward her youngest charge. 

“And what do you do, sweetie?” you asked Bronwyn.

“I’m strong!” she nearly shouted, jumping onto her knees. “I could pick you up if I liked—”

“You will not,” Alma warned. 

“Of course not, Miss P,” Bronwyn giggled, “I just meant that I could.” 

“Bronwyn was the one who carried you here yesterday,” the headmistress said; she patted Claire on the back as the little girl dug further into her shoulder. “Claire’s just anxious, because she knows she’s next.”

“Aww, sweetheart, you don’t have to show me your…what was it called?”

“Back mouth,” Fiona offered. 

“Thank you.” You narrowed your eyes, trying to imagine how literally you should interpret the term ‘back mouth.’ “You don’t have to show me your back mouth if you don’t feel comfortable doing so.” 

There were a few moments of silence in which all four of you watched the youngest girl expectedly; she lifted her head and turned wide eyes on her ymbryne. Alma’s expression softened. She took the pocket watch out of her jacket and barely glanced at its face before exclaiming, “It’s time for me to fetch the next group. Come along, you three—”

“But Miss Peregrine!” Fiona whined. “Can’t Hugh and Horace just stand? We could stay on the bed.”

“One could fit next to Bronwyn,” you suggested, which earned you a gentle glare from the headmistress. “And Claire could stay on my lap until you come back…”

Alma looked to Claire for approval. The little girl nodded, her golden curls bouncing as she smiled shyly up at her ymbryne, and Alma sighed in defeat. 

“Alright,” she conceded, “but you all will have to give her some time to recuperate before supper, understood?”

They answered in unison.

“Yes, Miss Peregrine.”

With a final glance to you, she picked Claire up around the waist and placed her in your lap, carefully avoiding the scabs on your leg. 

“Be good while I’m gone.”


	6. Teeth Marks and Closed Legs

The moment Alma was out of earshot, Fiona and Bronwyn both scooted closer to you. 

“She acts like we never behave.”

You jumped, but the little girls were all laughing. You peered around Bronwyn to the end of the bed, where you thought you’d heard the voice, but there was no one there.

“Who said that?” 

“Sorry to startle you,” it said again. “My name’s Millard.”

Fiona tugged on your sleeve.

“Millard’s invisible,” she whispered. 

“Always?”

“Yes, always,” she giggled. “Millard, won’t Miss Peregrine be looking for you?”

“No, she’s saving the best for last,” the voice was coming closer, but you had a difficult time tracing his movements. “Something about how my Peculiarity could be a little off-putting at first.” 

“I wonder why.”

Claire was still giggling. 

“Miss P’s bound to figure you out,” Fiona stated, laying back into your pillows. “Probably suspects you’ll try something like this.”

You realized that you weren’t the only one who couldn’t see him. Yes, he was invisible, but you half-expected the girls to have learned how to track him by now. Of course, if he was easy to spot, then their headmistress wouldn’t have missed him, but that was besides the point. Their heads didn’t turn unless he spoke and they seemed just as surprised as you when he said he was trying to shake your hand—not that they were shocked at his proximity, like you (they were probably wont to his moving about without their notice), but they did not know exactly what he was doing in the space he was in. They couldn’t see how far his hand was extended to warn you that you were putting yours out too far, or that he was standing just to your right; thankfully, you missed slapping his hand, but your foot, which tended to kick back and forth whenever you were nervous, landed right in the middle of his shin. 

He hissed.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!” 

“No problem at all,” he half-groaned. “I’m used to it.” 

Your absentmindedly wound your arm tighter around Claire, hugging her close to you. One moment, you were feeling the tickle of her curls against your neck and shoulder; the next, you were hissing in pain. You pulled the little girl away from your bad shoulder, only to have her accidentally jostle the gash on your leg in all the confusion. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she kept crying. 

Bronwyn had lifted Claire out of your lap and placed her on the edge of the mattress in the time it took you to glance down at the bite marks on your shoulder.

“It’s alright, Claire,” you said, tears stinging your eyes. “It’s alright. It just caught me off guard. It’s alright, sweetheart.”

You put your hands out, hoping to convey that you sincerely held her at no fault, but she wouldn’t go back to you. Your red, blotchy face, which was still twisted in pain, was making tears well up in her own eyes.

Bronwyn took to comforting Claire while Fiona fussed unnecessarily (and unproductively) about your injuries. You noticed too late that Millard had disappeared, and, anyways, you weren’t in the right state of mind at the moment to consider what that implied. 

“Is anyone else hurt?” Alma said, stepping in front of you before you had the chance to even process that she was in the room. When no one replied, she continued, her voice as smooth and strong as ever, “Then go downstairs, all of you. Tell Emma and Olive to start making dinner; I’ll join them sometime later than I expected.” 

“Yes, Miss Peregrine,” Fiona moped. 

Claire, unsurprisingly, was the first one out of the room, quickly followed by Bronwyn, and lastly, Fiona, who was dragging her feet and staring longingly at the white flowers on your nightstand. The moment the door creaked shut, Alma kneeled between your legs. 

“What are you—”

“Your leg is bleeding,” she stated, pulling the hem of her nightdress up your calf. 

You…hadn’t noticed that. But she was right; the faintest tinge of pink-red shone through the thin, off-white fabric, which meant your bandages had been bled through. 

“Apologies, but I’d rather have a look at it,” she blushed, “and…if I could, I would like to save this dress.”

“No problem.”

You could feel the heat growing in your cheeks and chest, and you raked your fingers gently through your hair, allowing it to settle in front of the blotches of red that were beginning to form. If Alma noticed your discomfort, she didn’t show it; she continued to slide the fabric up your leg until it was caught mid-thigh. 

“You’ll have to stand—”

You did as told before she’d even finished her sentence. Though your position had changed dramatically, Alma remained where she was on the floor, meaning you were now standing with her head practically touching your thigh…The one and only time you looked down at her, the heat that had settled across your chest began to spread lower and you couldn’t risk her noticing. So, for the rest of the encounter, you acted as a puppet, doing everything she said and nothing more.

“Hold this here,” she said, placing the bunched-up skirt in the palm of your hand. “It didn’t stain, thank goodness, so I’ll just need to rebandage this, and you won’t have to change clothes.”

“My...my shoulder.”

“Oh, right,” Alma sighed. Your eyes met. “I’d forgotten.”

Your leg hadn’t been hurt too badly. There was nothing Claire could really have done, besides scraping up a section of the scabbing, which she had. The real problem was with your torn shoulder. It now sported a thick set of shallow teeth marks. Though they hadn’t torn through the dress so much as pushed the material into the cuts (thank goodness), there was still the definite chance that it’d come out stained.

After giving you strict instructions to sit on the side of the bed and wait for her to return, Alma disappeared with the night dress. She had been in such a hurry, she hadn’t given you a change of clothes, and you desperately needed to relieve the heat that had settled in your lower stomach...but she’d also asked you to stay still, so you couldn’t search the wardrobe for something suitable and excuse yourself to the restroom (which was, you were certain, the only room in the house in which Alma would give you any privacy). You clamped your legs together and tried to think of something—anything—that would distract you from the image of Alma kneeling beneath you. 

You pulled the sheets over your lap. You considered covering your chest, too, but she walked in as you were debating...Her eyes fell directly to your hand, which, in your frustration, you’d clenched around the hem of the sheets. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, offering you a cocky grin. She didn’t wait for your answer. “I have to find you another dress, I just thought it’d be best to clean that shoulder as quickly as possible.” 

She leaned over you, too close—her perfume was the only thing you could smell, making your head swim—and ran a damp face cloth over the bite marks. It was impossible to think of anything else while she was so close to you, touching you, with so much heat—

You moaned.

“I’m sorry.” She pulled away.

“I—it’s fine. I…” you stuttered, pulling the sheet up to cover your chest. “It’s fine. I could...I could probably take it from here.”

She reached out to hand you the cloth, but you had already licking your hand. You blushed, realizing how intently she was watching you and how bizarre this must all seem, then wiped the acid on your shoulder. There was a slight hissing noise, then a pop, and the teeth marks were gone. 

“How Peculiar.” Alma spoke softly, taking a seat in her armchair.

“Could I, um, could I get a dress or something? I could really use a restroom.” 

She smirked. 

“Of course.” 


	7. Sweet Dreams

Now, you understood Peculiarities...sort of. You’d met Fiona and Bronwyn, been personally bitten by Claire’s back mouth, kicked an invisible boy in the shin, and come to realize that your strange ability to heal things was a lot less abnormal than you’d always believed. Alma hadn’t yet explained to you about her Peculiarity, but you assumed it had something to do with time. Just a wild guess. 

You ate dinner by yourself and found that you were much more tired than you’d convinced yourself; by the time Alma returned from ‘movie time,’ which had something to do with Horace, one of the children whom you hadn’t met, you were already nodding off.

“(Y/N),” she whispered, bringing you out of your dreams. “(Y/N), wake up, just for a moment.”  
“Is something wrong?” you rasped. 

“Not at all. I just wanted you to know that there will be a lot of noise; it happens every night,” she explained, tucking the blankets carefully around your shoulders. “I don’t want you to be frightened if they wake you. Emma will be up here during Reset, in case you need someone with you. Do you understand?” 

You groaned. 

Alma ran a thumb across your cheek and, suddenly, you were wide awake.

“Good night, (Y/N).” She leaned down and kissed you, her lips lingering just above yours as she whispered, “Sweet dreams.”

And then she was gone. Though your eyes were closed, you remained awake—through Emma’s awkward arrival, through the rumble of airplanes above, through the strange, distorted music that floated in through the window, and the door shutting softly as Alma came back, dressed in her night gown. You were only able to drift off to sleep when she took a seat in her chair, within arm’s reach. 


	8. Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've probably noticed, I'm updating this particular fic in parts, meaning 2-4 chapters at a time...If you'd like to check them out in the original layout/format, you can do so at my tumblr, which I'll link below. Don't forget to leave a comment and kudos if you're enjoying the story. :)
> 
> kanenerose.tumblr.com

You woke up several times throughout the night to check whether Alma had moved; you’d turn toward the chair, where she was dozing beautifully, her silhouette outlined in pale blue moonlight, and drift immediately back to sleep. Your dreams were slow and happy.

The last time you awoke, it was to a pink and gold dawn. You shifted your head groggily and opened your eyes, as you’d done so many times that night, but Alma was no longer asleep. She was sitting with her hands in her lap, legs crossed at the ankle, head resting against the side of the armchair. A faint smile pulled at the edges of her pale pink lips.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You were restless last night, if you don’t recall.”

“Was I?” you feigned ignorance. “I feel fine.”

“Hmm.”

Keeping your gaze, she stood and sat on the edge of the mattress. She was in a long, white nightdress with short, lacework sleeves and you couldn’t help but notice that it was the same one you’d worn the day before—the one she’d taken away to clean after nearly being bitten through by poor Claire’s back mouth.

“Glad to see the blood didn’t stain,” you remarked as she settled by your hip. “It’s a beautiful dress.”

Alma ran her fingernails over the shoulder. They were less fingernails than talons, you realized—long, sharp, blue talons that reminded you of a bird of prey. You squeazed your legs closer together, hoping Alma wouldn’t notice.

“Fortunately, there wasn’t enough to really stain,” she said. “I didn’t even need to throw it in with the washing.”

“Oh,” you muttered, having nothing else to say. “Good.”

There was a definite change in her demeanor. Whereas she’d been so strict and anxious about your condition the day before, Alma was now relaxed, offering lazy smiles and laughs hidden behind a loose fist. Her thin frame shook with every fit of giggles and she often folded both arms over her chest, as if she were clutching something to her heart. She was a strong woman—you could tell just by how she spoke to and of her children, of the care they required and the standards to which she held them all—but you only now realized just how delicate she was.

An hour later, when the pink and gold clouds outside subsided into pale yellow sunlight, Alma glanced at the pocket watch on the nightstand and sighed.

“I have to make breakfast.” She seemed disappointed; her hands, which were still intertwined above her heart, finally separated and fell into her lap. “I’ll have someone bring yours up for you.”

“I could always…” but she was glaring playfully at you. You relented. “Fine, I’ll be good and stay in bed.”

“Good,” she smirked, leaning down to peck you on the cheek. “Good Peculiars often get rewarded.”

You squirmed, and Alma definitely took notice; she glanced down at the new, sharp crease in the sheets, where you’d pulled your legs tight together, and blushed.

“I’ll be back after breakfast. Today you’re getting a bath.”

 

The first step in disobeying a direct order is to find a reason to do so. For some, this can be as simple as wanting to rebel against their parents (A.K.A. hitting puberty). For others, it can be something as embarrassing as an intense need to use the restroom. Alma had told you not to move on your own, but you couldn’t really wait for her to come back and there was no way you were going to shout for someone’s attention, only to request “Hey, can you get your headmistress? I really need to pee.”  _No way in hell._

The second step is finding a way to actually disobey. Again, some were pretty simple: remain inactive. Told to clean your room? Stay in bed. Told to go outside? Don’t.

You, however, had to maneuver down the hall on a busted ankle without getting caught. And quick.

The first step on your ankle stung. You had expected it, though, of course, so you didn’t so much as hiss when the pain shot up your leg. You leaned heavily on your right side and tried to hold yourself up against Alma’s armchair as you passed, then grasped awkwardly at the nightstand on your left. For a moment, you simply stood there, arms already tired from supporting half your weight. You weren’t expecting this to be so hard.

You swung the door slowly open and peered into the hall. A teenage boy with dark brown hair and a permanent scowl glowered as you peaked precariously around the door frame.

“Do you need some help?”

You landed on your ankle wrong while trying to dodge back into your room and winced.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

His resting bitch face might have put you off at first, but his accent was wonderful…Irish or Scottish, you couldn’t tell which—you’d always been terrible distinguishing between the two. He swung the door open completely and, ignoring your weak protests, wrapped your arm around his shoulder.

“Enoch, isn’t it?” you asked as he pulled you closer. You grunted as he began to walk you towards the bathroom.

“Does that hurt?” He nodded down toward your ankle. “I could stop if you need to.”

“No, you’re fine,” you mumbled. “It was my own stupid fault for trying to move too quick.”

The end of the hallway was thinner than you would have liked; it didn’t give you very much space to stand side-to-side, so Enoch was forced to pull you even closer, bringing your hurt leg practically on top of his, like in a three-legged race. You looked and felt ridiculous, but he seemed to think nothing of it.

Your room was almost opposite the bathroom. The only other room further from it also appeared to be the largest and you assumed, with very little doubt, that it belonged to Miss Peregrine. This meant that you had to hobble nearly the entire length of the house using Enoch as a crutch.

“So sorry,” you muttered as he struggled to balance you and open the door at once.

“Don’t be.’ His face softened and the hard-set frown that you’d observed until now subsided; you assumed it was the closest he ever got to smiling. He maneuvered you inside and closed the door behind you, saying, “I’m going to wait in the hall. Just knock when you’re ready.”

Well, there went all your hope of getting yourself back to your room. You honestly hated letting someone else take care of you, especially when it had to do with something so necessary, yet so embarrassing, as needing a restroom. I mean…you knew it had to be done, it just wasn’t the most romantic thing in the world to think about.

Walking back to your room, Enoch held you tighter than before; he found that you moved easier if he held you around the waist, rather than under the shoulder, and leaned most of your weight into him, instead of diverting all that balance onto your working ankle. Things were going rather swimmingly until Alma’s head poked up the staircase. At first, she didn’t seem to notice the two of you—she was looking down at the tray she’d set for you, and focusing hard, it seemed, on making sure that nothing spilled—but the blood quickly drained from her face as she took in the sight of you both, Enoch’s arm wrapped around your waist.

“Mr. O’Connor,” she spat, “What did I tell you about bothering Miss (Y/L/N)?”

You felt your blood go cold, but Enoch didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He simply started to walk again, nodding towards your bedroom as he passed Alma on the landing.

“She needed a restroom,” he said coolly. That was it; for him, the issue was settled.

Enoch took his time setting you back into your bed, careful not to jostle your ankle while he did so, and gave you a quick warning in the form of an eye roll, which you had no doubt had something to do with Alma’s ridiculously strict policies regarding you and your welfare.

“Thanks, Enoch,” you muttered as he left.

Alma placed your tray over your lap; instead of heading straight downstairs or giving you a stern talking-to, as you’d expected, she took a seat in her armchair and stared at the lilies that were now beginning to wilt on the nightstand. A minute passed in silence.

“Did you like those flowers?” she asked suddenly, her voice low and raspy. You couldn’t quite make out the inflection, but she sounded defeated…the way you sounded the first time your middle school crush asked your best friend to the dance instead of you: bordering on tears, yet somehow emotionless.

“Very much.” Your voice, in comparison, was laced with uncertainty. There was something about her change in attitude that not only caught you by surprise, but instilled in you a newfound fear: causing Alma Peregrine pain. You weren’t really sure why she had become upset, or how that distress had transformed further into near-brokenness within moments; you knew, however, that it would never happen again.

Those dazzling blue eyes remained on the nightstand, but her gaze seemed to be hazy. Maybe, you wondered, if she weren’t so important—if you were someone else, whose heart didn’t skip a beat every time she spoke your name—you wouldn’t have noticed such subtle behaviors, wouldn’t realize that something had changed. But, being as enraptured as you were, you also wondered how someone could meet Alma Peregrine and not be enchanted.

“You’ll…” her voice trailed off as she gathered herself together, physically stiffening and straightening her posture, regaining some sort of composure to reflect the well-manicured, confident woman you knew her to be. Her voice was still slightly broken, and her eyes distant, when she next spoke, “You’ll need a bath. Today—this evening, I’ll run a bath for you.”

She seemed to be talking more to herself than to you, and you didn’t bother telling her that she’d already informed you about the bath. You simply nodded, muttered a weak “Alright,” and watched timidly as she walked out, shutting the door firmly behind her as she went.

 

You had thought, with all of the fuss she’d given you the past two days, Alma wouldn’t allow the other children into your room until you’d mostly healed. Especially after her reaction to seeing you with Enoch…Part of you wanted to meet the others and save yourself the boredom that had consumed you the day before; another part of you, however, just longed to have Alma by your side, sitting in her nightdress, leaning over you, exuding the same intensity and passion she had when she was jealous, or the sense of ease and calm when you’d first spoken that morning. You had never really been a romantic (you scoffed at those cheesy romance novels and turned your nose up, half-heartedly, at those happy ending Lifetime movies that always included the same three characters: the damsel in distress, the supportive, gossipy best friend, and the handsome, if insensitive, love interest), but you were beginning to understand the sentiment.

Emma appeared to clear your breakfast tray from the already-cluttered nightstand. You had caught a glimpse of her the night before while pretending to sleep, but you hadn’t noticed her thick, lead shoes; the floorboards creaked beneath her and she moved with an overcompensating gait that looked so effortless, yet, simultaneously, so oddly calculated. She was average height for her age—probably sixteen or seventeen years old—and skinny (not as skinny as Alma, but still). Her light blonde hair was cut just below her shoulders and bobbed a little whenever she took a step.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully, smiling down at you with large, doe eyes. “I’m Emma.”

“(Y/N).” You shook her hand. “Your dress is…your dress looks nice.”

It was a baby blue, old-fashioned thing, with elbow-length sleeves and a very simple knee-length skirt. There was no pleating, or any other sort of design, besides some lacing on the bodice…You had noticed that Alma dressed oddly, and that the girls and Enoch were slightly old-fashioned as well, but, at the time, you had attributed this to Cairnholm itself; everyone on the island was out of touch with the mainland, not only with more modern technologies and obvious cultural trends, but in their fashion as well. There was something in the unadventurous, old-timey way the children dressed that matched the others in Cairnholm. Alma, of course, was something different entirely—she wore form-fitting jackets with embroidered detail and tailored skirts, all in outstanding, outlandish blues and black—and you’d considered her sense of style as simply an extension of her eccentricity, which you loved.

There was something about Emma though…Perhaps it was the simplicity of her dress, combined with the bright, unusual color of the fabric and the strange intricacy and heaviness of her shoes, that really caught your attention, but she seemed somehow a conglomeration of the island’s out-of-date style and her headmistress’s daring one.

She must have picked up on your curiosity, because she lifted one foot, extended it to display, then placed it down again.

“Miss P had it made to keep my Peculiarity in check,” she said with a smirk. “Air.”

“Air?”

“I float,” she shrugged, “among other things. I heard you can heal using your…um, mouth?”

You laughed; you couldn’t help it. She was trying to be considerate of your feelings, but, after a moment of watching you, she laughed along, apparently at ease.

“I prefer ‘kiss things better,’ but, yes, that’s the gist of it,” you giggled, sitting up in bed. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Emma.”

“Oh, gosh.” She turned her face to the side and hid it behind one hand, but you could tell she was still grinning. Her chest was still bubbling with inaudible amusement. After a moment to collect herself, and with a steady breath, she tucked a strand of pale blonde hair behind her ear and looked back at you, face a blotchy red and eyes rimmed in tears. “I shouldn’t be laughing—she’s probably said some wicked things about me.”

But she was still grinning.

“Not at all,” you winked.

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” She grabbed the tray and began shifting towards the door. “Give me a minute to get this chore done, and then you can tell me all about myself.”

Of course Alma had told you about the children! She had neglected to mention that they could make plants grow, or wore lead shoes to keep them from floating away, but you knew without a doubt that she loved them. The most she had ever talked about a particular child, however, was Emma; she seemed to be Alma’s unofficial favorite. You knew that she was responsible, taking charge around the home whenever her headmistress required; smart and clever as one could hope to be; proper and punctual (which, you figured, were far more important qualities to Alma than they were to you); and just stubborn, witty, and bull-headed enough to make her own. Alma was always so proud to talk about her oldest charge, and you told her so much, leaving out the bit about her being the ‘unofficial favorite.’

“Miss Peregrine is really clever,” she said, responding to your astonishment (you’d thought were you’d been more subtle about it) that she’d somehow talked your ear off for hours without once mentioning Peculiarities. “She probably just wanted to gauge how you’d react. If you were going to be close-minded, it wouldn’t do any good to tell you without proof.”

Emma really liked to laugh; either that, or she was compensating for something.

“Is there something I should know?” you asked as casually as you could. “I mean, about you.”

The beautiful, wide smile fell—the mirth that shook her frame subsided immediately. A brief look of panic, or guilt, flashed across her eyes, and you knew you’d somehow struck a cord.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just—”

“No,” she waved her hand dismissively. “No, you’re right to ask that. I mean…” She took a breath and shifted the shoe she’d been holding in her lap to keep herself in the armchair. “I’m the reason you fell the other day. I saw you come into the Loop and I followed you up to the ridge…I wasn’t trying to scare you. I’m so sorry.”

“Emma, you’re fine,” you smiled. “I was stupid to be up there in the first place. I deserved to be scared.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t gotten better like you did.”

“You would have been outside playing instead of keeping an invalid company.” You were trying to make her laugh, and it was working, albeit slowly. “I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of people up here.”

“I mean, the villagers don’t really come to our side of the island, no,” she admitted, playing absentmindedly with the details on her boot. “They always stay in town, unless we do something to provoke them,” she said this last part slightly under her breath and it made you curious, but it was a question for another time, “and we haven’t had a new Peculiar in ages.”

“You never leave the island?”

She gave you a strange look, but it passed. The next one was worse: a twisted, half-assured, pitiable pout that was obviously meant to be disregarded as pensive.

“I’ve never actually  _left_ Cairnholm since coming here,” she said, finally turning back to you. “So it’s been, what, more than seventy years now?”

You might have stopped breathing. Either that, or you were so shocked that your body went numb and you simply didn’t  _feel_ like you were still functioning correctly.

“Pardon?” you managed to squeak.

“Seventy-five now, I believe,” she nodded. “It is 2018, right? Or have I messed it up again?”

“It’s…it’s 2018.”

“Oh, good. I’ve been losing track lately; there’s just not enough keeping me interested in the outside.”

She was still playing with the decoration on her shoe, so she’d missed your confusion. Or perhaps, you wondered, she might have been doing that on purpose: pretending to fuss with something else and let some information slip, knowing that her headmistress was keeping you in the dark. According to the girl Alma had described, it wasn’t completely out of her character.

“Emma,” you breathed, “how old are you?”

“Ninety-two,” she answered easily. “Oh, I’m ninety-two! I was right, then, it has been seventy-five years.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you don’t?” she said unconvincingly. “I may not be at liberty to tell you, but you should ask Miss Peregrine about Loops.”

She winked, but you were still miles behind, processing a seventeen-year-old girl celebrating her ninety-second birthday. It would explain how they dressed and the odd way they spoke—both of which, somehow, were even more outdated than those of the people of Cairnholm—but that wasn’t what was going through your head at the moment: manipulating time seemed the most improbable Peculiarity anyone could have described, and you had a feeling you knew the most improbable woman who’d be capable.


	9. An Ymbryne's Duties

Ambush. The best way to get answers, right? Obviously. A rapid succession of questions could take any person off their guard, so long as they weren’t suspecting it. The problem with Alma Peregrine was that she wasn’t just anyone—or, more this is what foiled your oh-so-genius plan to startle her into giving away precious information about Loops.

Once Emma had left, lunch had come and gone without any further visits from either the children or their headmistress. You had been left alone with your copy of Mary Shelley’s  _Frankenstein: Or the Modern Prometheus_ , a mug of tea that you nursed for several hours, and your thoughts. It was difficult to focus on the page when all you wanted to think about was Alma; her lips, her scent, her smile…There was something so unreal about her that you almost wandered whether you’d ever actually woken up from falling at all, or were just now in some dingy hospital bed on the other side of the island, dreaming about a paradise in which your abnormality was a blessing and your heart could stop beating for a woman you’d only just met.

Perhaps that was the worst danger of having so much time to yourself: you had time to obsess over Alma. Would she be so important if you had someone else to distract you? Would you fall for her still if you’d met her in more ‘normal’ circumstances—standing behind her in line at a coffee shop, or hugging the walls at one of Emily’s college parties—like how other couples do? You tried to ignore the part of you that said you’d love her no matter when, or where, or how.

You were along that line of thinking when you suddenly remembered the Loop thing Emma had mentioned. Was it possible that they were all so old? Or was it all some sort of joke. I mean, it wouldn’t be the most peculiar thing you’d heard in the last two days, but you resolved, somehow, on that ‘ambush’ plan not long after you had finished lunch and used the rest of your time alone to devise the many different angles of attack you could use to catch Alma off-guard.

Several children rushed by your door, which had been left slightly ajar when Emma left. This wasn’t strange in and of itself, but you noticed that their footsteps all dispersed into different bedrooms, then began to run back towards the stairs. As she passed, Fiona peaked inside your room, waved sheepishly, and hurried after the others. They all seemed to be going for their daily walk, which meant another hour or so without any noise in the house.

Great. Just what you wanted.

Alma had spent all of that morning—since her odd display of jealousy, of course—with her children, rather than with you, and you just assumed that she would take them on their walk. So you were shocked when the door to your room opened and Alma stepped inside, holding a short stack of towels and a comb.

“It’s time for that bath,” she said frankly, without so much as glancing your way. She placed the towels at the end of your bed and the comb on the nightstand, where your nearly-empty mug of tea was still waiting to be moved. “I also want to unbandage that leg, to see how it’s faring.”

Alma helped you shift to the edge of the mattress so that she could kneel beneath you once again.

“I’ll need to see it.” She sounded exasperated.

Alma pulled your gown up to your knee until it wouldn’t budge any further. You were about to stand and fix the issue yourself, but Alma sighed, hooked both her hands under either of your knees, and pulled you forward; you slid easily across the sheets, only losing your balance out of sheer surprise. Now your skirt was hiked up to your waist, and Alma was kneeling in front of you, her face in between your thighs, as you caught your balance back on your elbows.

“Are you alright?” she asked dismissively, then got straight to work. Her face twisted into what you deemed  _determination_ as she carefully unwound the bandages from your leg.

Her focus was so strong, and her look so severe, that you thought now would be the perfect time to catch her by surprise.

“So, um,” you began, trying to ignore the way her breath heated and cooled your skin. “How old are you?”

Not the question you thought you were going to start off with, but now that it’d been said, it was too late to take it back. She looked up at you suspiciously and muttered, “Thirty-five. Why does it matter?”

Alma finished unwrapping the gauze and was now inspecting what was left of the scabbing, but you could feel her hesitancy.

“I was just curious,” you said, looking anywhere but at her. “And. um…how long have you been thirty-five?”

Suddenly, a pair of lips were on your thighs, trailing rough kisses up toward your core. Already leaning back on your elbows, you became limp: your head fell back onto the mattress and your legs drifted ever so slightly apart. The only part of you that remained solid seemed to be your hips, which were inching forward, trying to meet Alma’s lips halfway.

But she stopped just before reaching your panties and pulled away.

You let out a long, heavy breath, trying to hide your disappointment.

“You remember what I said this morning,” she said, “about how good Peculiars get rewards?”

“Yes,” you muttered, dragging yourself back up onto your elbows.

“Well, you haven’t been very good at all today, have you?” she smirked, but there was a sort of perturbed glean in her eye; the contradictory pair made you wonder whether she was trying to mask real hurt, or trying to work some angle to this new game.

“First,” she continued, raking one talon gently over the fabric of your underwear, “you lean on Enoch, when I told you not to ask my children for help. Do you know how hard it was to see you so close to him—his arm around your waist, the way you molded to fit his form? It was maddening.”

You whimpered: she was now circling your clit and you could feel the sharp edge of her nails, even through the layer of fabric separating her from your flesh.

“Now you’re talking with Emma about things that you shouldn’t be, and asking me questions I don’t want to answer. Not very good behavior at all.”

“Oh.”

She hummed, then placed a kiss to your core.

“You’ll have to promise you’ll behave for me,” she cooed, hooking one finger under the hem of your panties.

Your chest tightened and you had to fight the urge to snap your legs shut, as you’d always done when the heat grew to be too much. Alma placed one hand on either side of your center and ran those talons teasingly over your slit.

“I didn’t hear a promise.”

“Fuck,” you moaned. “I’ll be good, I swear. Please, Alma.”

“Good. Lay down,” she commanded.

You did as told. In one slow, unpracticed movement she wrapped her fingers just inside your panties and pulled them down your thighs. It was a bit clunky, and there wasn’t much more space she could make for herself, being stuck between your legs, so you brought your knees to your chest and slid the damp cotton down to your ankles yourself. But Alma took charge once again; she wrapped an arm around your injured leg and threw it over her right shoulder, then forced the other leg down and held it there.

She began kissing you again. Her lips trailed down one thigh, then skipped your soaking heat, and started her assault again at the opposite knee, all while her right thumb ran back and forth between your core and hip. You could already feel yourself dripping when you felt her bite down,  _hard_.

“Fuck,” you hissed.

“Was that alright?” her voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Alma…”

You sat up on your elbows again, hoping to peer down and meet her gaze, to assure her that she was driving you mad with her touch. But your voice trailed off: she was staring up at you with wide, frightened eyes, which, despite her attempts, were rimmed with a thin layer of tears. Your heart sank.

“Alma, you don’t have to do this,” you couldn’t get your voice above a whisper.

She nodded to you and offered a soft smile, then turned back to your leg and kissed the spot that, moments ago, had been covered in shallow teeth marks. You could see the hesitancy as she got closer to your core and you suddenly realized that the hand on your hip was moving out of anxious restlessness, not as a conscious bid to tease. You put one hand over your exposed core and sat up. Alma immediately unwrapped her arm from your injured leg and sat back, looking anywhere but at you.

“I was doing terribly,” she muttered. “I thought…I just wanted—”

“Alma, I stopped you because you were uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter how wonderful you make me feel; if you’re not alright, I don’t want you to touch me.” You watched her for a moment—slouching forward, shoulders drooping and chin fallen to her chest—then leaned forward and hugged her gently around the neck. “I’m not upset. Not with you, not with what you were doing. I just want you to be happy.”

It took a few seconds for the message to sink in, but Alma finally melted into the hug. You were at awkward angles—with her on the floor and you on the edge of the mattress, you were practically horizontal trying to reach her—but she was able to rest her head on the joining of your neck and shoulders. One hand reached up timidly to touch your hair.

“We should go take that bath now.”

 

Alma held you tight as she walked you to the bathroom. It was a long, white-blue room with a wide mirror, double-sink (you assumed the children all rushed to get ready at the same time in the morning, so there needed to be plenty of room to accommodate the needs of several of them simultaneously), and a large, ancient porcelain tub with silver legs. Unlike the hall outside, there was more than enough space for two people to stand side-by-side, but that was no longer an issue: the moment you were inside, she turned you to face her and pressed you against the vanity. Her eyes locked on yours, blue-green irises darker than you’d seen them, and she wrapped one arm around your back.

You stood like this—bodies together, breathing matched and deep, blue eyes boring into your own—but you didn’t notice that she was leaning forward, ever so slowly, until her breath was on your skin. Her arm tightened around your back, drawing you impossibly closer, and the other hand reached up and tangled itself in your hair. Your hands were absentmindedly trailing over her stomach and waist.

“Is this alright?” she whispered, her lips hovering just above your cheek.

You closed your eyes and nodded.

Alma was no longer shy or hesitant; kissing was something she was felt comfortable doing, whether or not she had done it before, and you could tell that she was more confident now than she had been in your bed. She closed the gap between you and pressed her lips to your cheek, then once to your jaw, and you found yourself turning to meet her as she finally reached your lips.

She was softer than you imagined—soft, but somehow still possessive—and so slow you could feel your head begin to swim again. Your lips smacked with her gentle push and pull, but you noticed she began to move further and further away, until you started to follow her mouth when you parted.

You opened your eyes to find her smirking triumphantly down at you.

“Let’s get you all cleaned.”

Alma helped you balance while you pulled the dress over your head, then assisted you to the bathtub.

“Step in,” she commanded.

You did as told, placing your good ankle down firmly on the smooth, dry surface. With one arm wrapped around her shoulders, you brought your other leg cautiously over the side of the tub and, keeping your knee as straight as possible, lowered yourself onto the cold, porcelain floor. Once you were settled, Alma stopped the drain and turned on the faucet; after testing the water several times and adjusting the temperature, she stood, turned away from the tub, and began to disrobe.

You ignored the first piece of clothing to fall, and the second, but by the time she was wrestling to get her stockings off, you were watching her intensely out of the corner of your eye. It wasn’t as if her outfits did a good job of disguising her figure, they just weren’t revealing either, so her beautiful curves were less shocking to you than the perfect, opalescent skin that she slowly uncovered.

“Make some room for me,” Alma suggested, still turned away. She was now shimmying, trying to get her undergarments over her hips, and you had a difficult time recalling what she’d just asked you to do. “(Y/N), did you hear me?”

“Um…” you mumbled. Your arms were now crossed over your chest and your legs were shut tight, hopefully concealing any signs of arousal (though, you realized, you were about to be in a tub full of water, so there was no point hiding your own wetness). “No. I…I didn’t.”

“Move forward,” she said plainly.

You tore your eyes away from her long enough to get your wits about you and scooted forward as far as your bad ankle would allow; the constant, steady stream from the faucet was actually soothing it, to your surprise.

But then Alma turned around.

While her back was to you, you could marvel at the expanse of pale, flawless skin, but now all you could see was the patch of blue-black hair between her legs. Like you, she had her arms crossed loosely over her chest, but she noticed the admiration in your eyes as you cautiously scanned her body—you checked her expression every few seconds to make sure she was comfortable under your gaze—and let her hands fall to her waist.

The water was just below your breasts, but she turned off the faucet and got in behind you, wrapping her legs loosely around your hips.

“Relax.”

You leaned your head back onto her shoulder as she reached for a face cloth. Her breasts felt odd against your back, especially with the contrast of her harder nipples, but it took only a few seconds for your own discomfort to subside; you had only been so close to someone a handful of times, and never while so vulnerable.

Alma brought the cloth to your shoulder and began to wipe away the pink tint that’d been left after your first encounter with Claire’s back mouth.

“This healed nicely,” she said. She grabbed your left arm and peered over your shoulder to examine it. “I hadn’t realized…”

“What?”

“They’re both completely healed,” she murmured. “Look here, the scab’s beginning to come off naturally, see?”

Alma dragged the cloth gently over the joint between your neck and shoulder.

“Why did it bother you,” you began, shivering under her touch, “when I brought up your age?

She moved onto your stomach, running the cloth in gentle circles beneath your breasts, and rested her chin against your head.

“I was afraid you’d leave.” Her voice was that weird mixture of emotionless and tearful again. “A lot of Peculiars have a hard time coping with their Peculiarities at first, which often results in their parting. As an ymbryne, it’s my duty to keep my children safe.”

“What is your Peculiarity exactly?”

Alma hummed happily and kissed your head.

“I can turn into a peregrine falcon,” she said, tossing the face cloth to the end of the tub and wrapping both hands around your waist.

“I…” you muttered. “I wasn’t really expecting that, if I’m honest.”

Alma laughed, low and sweet; you could feel the vibration in her chest.

“I also manipulate time. Is that more what you were thinking?”

“Um, yeah,” you admitted. “Sort of thought that. Emma said something about Loops today, and I thought that sounded like an Alma thing.”

“An ymbryne is capable of creating Loops,” she murmured into your neck, “which preserve a period of twenty-four hours. We choose a safe day, and a safe place, and relive the day again,” she kissed your neck, “and again,” then your shoulder, “for as long as there are children to tend to.”

“And if you leave?”

“They die.”

She said it so casually it was haunting. But the more you thought about it, the more you realized that Alma had no reason to worry about her children dying, because she would never let that happen. And that was precisely why she was afraid you would leave: she couldn’t let herself follow. 


	10. Jailbreak

You spent the next hour wrapped in Alma’s arms, soaking in the warm water, and absorbing all you could about ymbrynes and Peculiardom. By the time the children returned, you pretty much understood how ymbrynes are discovered by Misses Avocet and Bunting at an early age and taught how to control their Peculiarities; that they were all women and could all transform into their own type of bird (Alma had tried to explain that the reason for this was because birds were the only animals that could manipulate time, but this was too much for you to take at the moment, so you chose to ignore it); and, most importantly, that they each set out to establish their own safe Loops to care for Peculiar children.

You also realized that ‘Peregrine’ was not her maiden name, but one given to her for her ability to transform into that particular breed of falcon.

“If you were married,” you inquired some time later, pulling a clean shirt carefully over your torn shoulder, “would you still be Miss Peregrine, or would you take his name?”

“Ymbrynes aren’t known for marrying while doing their duties,” she explained. The window on the opposite wall was open and she had finally picked up that odd, old smoking pipe. You watched the blue-grey fumes spill from her lips (and, in less frequent instances, her nostrils) as she relaxed back into her armchair and answered your many questions. “But if it were to happen, I suppose, I would keep my name. To my children, I will always be Miss Peregrine.”

“What if he wants you to take his name?”

“He?” she laughed. Smoke puffed from her mouth and nose in spurts. “Why do you assume it will be a man?”

Sure, you’d spent the past hour in the tub together, naked, sharing kisses and heat, but that didn’t mean that she’d settle for a woman. From what you understood about the 1940s, that sort of relationship was forbidden, and you very much doubted that you were wrong..

“I mean, I don’t know…” you admitted, your voice thin and low, “isn’t that sort of improper?”

Alma smiled sincerely down at you. There was a certain mirth you didn’t recognize; it painted her cheeks and neck, almost like embarrassment, but she looked too happy to be flustered. She flicked her pipe quickly, killing the last bit of smoke, and placed it gingerly on the nightstand.

“As I said before, all of my children came to me from different circumstances. The one thing that linked them all—beside their Peculiarity, of course—was the abuse and neglect they suffered at the hands of normal people, who judged them for their abilities,” she explained. “Ignorance leads to misunderstanding, leads to hatred and pain. That’s what all of my children learned long before I ever came into their lives.

“The world outside treated them horribly for what they were,” she continued, looking contentedly down at her pocket watch as Fiona peaked inside the door. She pretended not to see her charge, and the little girl darted away within seconds, afraid of being caught bothering you.“But they’ve all grown from it, and rather nicely, if I do say so myself.”

You thought she’d have more to say on the matter, because she still hadn’t answered your question—or, at least, not directly—but she fixed her skirt, kissed your forehead, announced that dinner would be ready within the hour, and left.

 

You hated dinner. Not that it was a horrible meal in and of itself. In fact, it was delicious: goose with apples and roast potato, some sort of strong European coffee, and a small, cake-like dessert that had been baked and presented to you in a circular white ramekin. There was no doubt Alma was trying to show off now that she was back in the kitchen, rather than letting Emma and Olive prepare meals while she (needlessly) tended to your injuries.

The problem was that you were eating it alone. Alma had finally gone back to sharing meals with her children, but you still weren’t allowed to leave the upstairs, meaning you were stuck in bed with a tray and a book for company. Of course, you weren’t going to complain…Not to her face, at least. You did plenty of complaining in your head while you worked your way through  _Frankenstein_ for the millionth time.

“Enjoying the book?” Olive asked, peering inside your room for the first time (to your recollection). She was a tall, wiry thing with straight, orangey hair and a pink dress with a frilled collar. Timid half-smile and eyes, she was the least like Alma of all the children you’d met so far. As she pushed the door open and stepped inside, however, you noticed the over-sized rubber gloves on either hand. “I haven’t read that one yet. I’ve heard it’s rather good, but we don’t have it in our library.”

“You must be Olive.”

She nodded.

“Well, you can borrow it if you’d like,” you offered, holding it out for her to take. “I’ve read it too many times now.”

Olive watched it cautiously, as if it were about to attack, then slowly reached out and grabbed it with one of those uncomfortable-looking black gloves.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

She placed it on the tray beside your empty dishes and picked the whole thing up by its sides, turning to leave.

“Wait, Olive, actually,” you sputtered, catching the girl by surprise. “You…you wouldn’t happen to know if your headmistress would let me downstairs this evening to watch the Reset?”

The redhead smirked pityingly down at you.

“Not a chance.”

It wasn’t until after Olive had left that you realized they had a library. There wasn’t a single one in town, nor a bookstore, and so you’d assumed you’d have to hitch a ride back to the mainland in order to get any new reading material during your vacation. You hadn’t considered the fact that Alma supposedly held all of her children’s lessons in their home, or that they would need an accessible library to stave off boredom; it wasn’t as if they could make frequent trips outside of the Loop whenever their short supply of entertainment lost its luster.

This vacation had already proven so much more incredible than you could ever imagine, but there were those hours in which you were stuck in bed without company. A book, you thought, might help keep you at ease—one that you couldn’t already quote verbatim.

You resolved to ask Alma if you could visit the library whenever she returned, hoping that there was something more than outdated textbooks and withered classics like  _Dracula_ and  _Pride and Prejudice_ , both of which you’d exhausted…You woke the next morning, however, to find that you’d slept through Reset, and breakfast, and were now completely pain-free. With a quick check to see how your body was faring, you realized that the gash on your leg was sealed; the only evidence it had ever existed was a thin, pink scar that was already beginning to fade.

Slowly, you turned your left ankle.

“Fuck,” you growled as a sharp pain shot up your leg. “Alright, not the smartest idea.”

“Need any help?” a familiar voice called.

You turned to find Enoch peering into your room, one hand on the door frame. The rest of his body was angled toward the hallway, as if he was certain he’d be asked to leave.

“Actually, yes, Enoch. Thank you,” you muttered, shifting to the edge of the mattress. “My ankle’s still a little weak. Could you help me to the restroom again? I’d like to get changed.”

“Of course.”

There was that shadow of a smile you’d sworn you’d seen the previous morning. You leaned heavily into him as he guided you down the hall, then did your best to balance against the vanity when he returned with a pile of clothes—the exact outfit you’d been wearing when you fell. He offered to help you change with a begrudging half-smile and looked rather relieved when you said you could do that on your own.

“I was wondering, though,” you muttered a few minutes later, watching him in the mirror while you brushed your teeth, “if I could go downstairs today?”

There was that look again—the one you dreaded each and every time you suggested something new in this house. It was the look that said  _Miss Peregrine would have a fit if I let you do this, so the answer is no_. Enoch’s expression grew hard and he took a deep breath, clearly hoping to avoid any argument between himself and either you or Alma. Or perhaps he was simply weighing his options, because, by the time you spat into the sink, rinsed your brush, and focused all your energy into producing the best display of ‘puppy dog eyes’ you could manage, he was searching the landings for any sign of the headmistress.

“Coast seems to be clear,” he said to stave your confusion. “I think it’ll be better for the both of us if I carry you.”

“Um,” you muttered. Your eyes shifted from the stairs, to his open arms, to the determined—if not a tad frantic—spark in his dark russet eyes. “I’m not very good with being picked up.”

“I’m not going to drop you, I promise,” Enoch whispered. His voice was low and soothing; it lacked its usual hint of bitter sarcasm and annoyance and you felt your muscles relax at the sound. “Here,” he said, wrapping his hand around the middle of your back, “I’ll show you how easy this is.”

He wrapped his other arm behind our knees and lifted.

“Is this alright?” he asked.

You realized you had your eyes closed.

“Oh, um…yeah.”

Enoch then began to pace the upstairs hallway, never once nearing the stairs until he was certain you felt secure in his arms. Then, with a final glance down the staircase to make sure Alma was nowhere in sight, he started to descend, hugging you closer to his chest. You felt kind of silly being so afraid of heights that you couldn’t even stand to be picked up, but that shame didn’t stop you from covering your eyes and hiding your face in his shoulder.

Before you knew you’d reached the first landing, Enoch was loosening his grip and setting you upright.

“You’re on the ground,” he said. “Just be careful when…”

His voice trailed off. You thought you had a pretty good idea of what you’d see when you turned around.

“Mr. O’Connor.”

Suspicions: confirmed.

“Alma, it wasn’t his fault,” you mumbled, turning to face her.

She was stunning as always, though her cheeks and neck were tinted pink and her pale lips, normally full and curved, were pulled into a thin line. You went to take a step forward, forgetting your ankle, and immediately winced when you landed on your left foot.

Alma, of course, gave Enoch a warning glare. She rushed forward, wrapped both arms around your torso, and let go of her pocket watch, which fell to the end of its chain and bounced several times with a painful, metallic clink.

In the second or two it took you to straighten up, Enoch had disappeared.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered.

Alma rested her forehead against yours; noses touching, you could feel her breath on your lips, and you let them part in the hope that she’d notice your eagerness and kiss you. She’d closed her eyes and begun to turn her head when someone started running down the staircase behind you.

“Good morning,” Millard said happily before you had the chance to separate. “You’re looking much better, (Y/N). How do you feel?”

“Really good,” you blushed, placing your hands on Alma’s arms. You tried to push her gently off you, but she only held on tighter. “I was actually wondering if there was any chance of me visiting your library.”

Alma turned triumphantly to face the invisible boy (her accuracy, you were certain, must have been nearly perfect, or else she’d mastered the art of confidently staring without any idea  _where_ ) and beamed.

“Millard, could you do Miss (Y/L/N) a favor and retrieve  _Tales of the Peculiar_?” she asked—or, rather, demanded. You had a feeling these children rarely said no to their headmistress. “It should be on the second shelf down, by the window.”

You expected him to accept this task reluctantly. She was asking him to go back in the direction he just came, which was just about as far out of his way as she could ask him to go. To your surprise, however, Millard seemed ecstatic. He bounded back up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

“And put on some clothes,” Alma called up, just as he was about to hit the last landing.

“I’d never thought about that,” you admitted, your voice low and raspy for the morning, though she could tell you were holding back a giggle. “Does he have a habbit of running around naked?”

“Only when he thinks he’ll be static.” She smiled and pulled you in tighter. “But I happen to know that Hugh’s waiting for him in the yard to play, so it’s best he gets dressed before a football comes flying at his chest.”

She leaned in and pressed her lips to your forehead, then to your cheek, and…

Millard returned before either of you had the will power to pry yourselves apart. Alma only loosened her grip when he handed her the large, leather-bound tome, and even then it was begrudgingly.

“Thank you,” she said, tucking the book under her arm. “Can you carry my rocking chair into the back yard? I’m sure Miss (Y/L/N) would love to sit where she can enjoy all of your company.”

You could hear him stomp excitedly down the hall.

“The strange thing is,” Alma continued, “I don’t remember introducing you two.”

“Oh…”

If you weren’t ignoring her gaze like the plague, you would have noticed the amusement in her eyes. You might even dare consider the possibility that she  _liked_ when you broke the rules, or else, stuck by her children when they did so; no one had gotten hurt, other than Millard’s shin, and she didn’t know about that (to your knowledge, at least), so she was probably just happy that everyone was as supportive and trusting as they’d already become.

She guided you to the backyard. The grass and plants were greener than that of any garden you’d ever seen and there were large, extraordinary topiaries, all shaped as different animals—things like centaurs, dinosaurs, elephants, and many other species, both realistic and fantastic—that lined the yard, creating distinct pathways. It reminded you somehow of the pictures you’d seen of ancient Greek and Egyptian palaces: huge, flat-floored halls divided into sections by other-wordly statues of heroes and gods.

“Fiona made them,” Alma said proudly. “I’m not usually one to choose favorites, but I am partial to that one myself.”

She didn’t point, but instead nodded towards the end of the lawn, where a leafy griffin sat lounging in the shade with its wings lifted lazily above its torso.

“Of course,” you laughed. “It’s the one creature here that flies.”

She hummed low in her throat and watched as a boy, around ten or twelve years old, ran in and out of the middle line of topiaries, chasing after a soccer ball. He would kick it to one side, race after it, then kick it to the other side again, like an over-sized obstacle course. On the far end of the lawn, opposite the griffin, Claire and Bronwyn were sitting on a blanket with an assortment of plastic tea cups, silverware, and stuffed animals, serving tea to two little boys (or, what you assumed were two little boys) in matching white, ruffly costumes, complete with a hood, mask, and tights.

“The twins,” she explained, “need to cover their eyes. The rest of their outfit…well, that’s just their preference. Not all Peculiars are confident enough about their differences to show them off.

“You might have a bit of trouble understanding them,” she continued, nodding toward the rocking chair, which looked as if it were being carried across the garden by a floating button-up  shirt. “Thank you, Millard. Anyway, as I was saying, they don’t actually speak English. We’ve all found our ways of communicating, but it took each of the children some time to do so.”

“You figured it out right away, I’m assuming.”

“Of course,” she stated, her tone indifferent, but her half-smirk was telling. She needlessly helped you into the rocking chair and placed  _Tales of the Peculiar_  in your lap. “These are sort of folktales about Peculiardom…most of our children grow up reading them.”

“So they’re like Hans Christian Andersen or Brothers Grimm?” you asked innocently.

You thought this would be something Alma would know, even if she was raised apart from normals, but there was a few moments’ pause before recognition reached her eyes. She perched precariously on the chair’s arm and folded one ankle over the other.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed, “I do remember hearing about those, though, I admit, I’m not sure which is which.”

“I think you’d enjoy them.”

You opened the book to the first chapter and raised your eyebrows; the title was just so…unexpected, you weren’t sure how you were supposed to react.

“ _The Splended Cannibals_?” you voiced tentatively, fearing you’d somehow misread it…or, worse, that you hadn’t.

Alma simply nodded.

“A lesson on greed,” she explained. “Oh, but I shouldn’t spoil anything. I know they might sound a bit off-putting at first, but they’re terrific stories. I promise. You might even have an audience.”

You hadn’t noticed that both Hugh and Millard were now making their way towards you, with the latter moving considerably faster; the invisible boy was almost at a run and, before you knew it, he was bent over with his hands on his knees, panting out something almost incoherent. You only understood that he was, apparently, asking to join you.

“Oh, um…of course,” you said, astonished, as Millard took a seat in the grass in front of you. Hugh finally caught up and did the same. It was then that you realized the girls also begun to migrate, most likely trying to figure out what had gotten the boys so exited.

“What’s all this about?” Fiona asked, peering around the corner of the house.

“(Y/N)’s got the  _Tales_!” Hugh shouted back. He opened his mouth, letting a small swarm of bees to come lazing out, and watched as they buzzed happily among the flowers several feet off. “She’s going to read it for us!”

Fiona began running your way. She took a seat beside Hugh just as Horace stepped out from behind one of the topiaries for the first time; then Claire and Bronwyn found spots in the developing, lopsided semi-circle; the twins dawdled, but eventually sat, stiff-legged, behind the rest; and even Emma, who you thought would be too old for Story Time, had brought out a few throw cushions and a blanket, so that they could all relax. The only ones missing were Enoch and Olive, and you were certain that the former would do his best to avoid seeming so childish.

You simply sat there and stared as this all happened. Not only had you accumulated an audience in such a short amount of time, but you’d also witnessed a boy exhale a hive of bees like they were thin as air.

“So, children,” Alma said once everyone had settled. “Where should she begin?”


	11. The Future Put on Hold

Reading aloud wasn’t necessarily your forte…You couldn’t do the voices like your mother had done when she read to you as a child, and you couldn’t look up to engage with anyone while you were reading without losing your spot. You just weren’t the best at presenting, that’s all. The children, however, didn’t seem to care: they knew the stories by heart and would volunteer to play different characters. In fact, so many of them wanted to be the cannibals that you had to do that particular folktale more than once, giving them each a turn. **  
**

Even Emma, who was older than the rest by a minimum of five years, enjoyed stalking behind the younger ones and capturing them during _The Fork-Tongued Princess_. 

You sat in the shade, reading and watching them perform, until Alma called everyone inside for lunch.

“Oh, please, Miss Peregrine,” Fiona whined. “Can’t we eat out here for once?”

“Yeah,” they all sang together, though not quite in synchrony. “Come on, please?”

You knew that pensive look—the quick, indecisive way she darted her radiant eyes between you and the children. She was looking for any excuse to give them what they wanted without looking like she was caving to needless demands. You caught on almost immediately, elevated your bad ankle on a throw pillow you’d neglected until now, and gave your best pout.

“It would be so nice if I could stay where I am,” your voice had an ingenuine honey sweetness to it and you could see Alma’s amusement in the way her eyes furrowed, attempting to stifle a smirk. “I wouldn’t want to agitate my ankle any more than I need to, but if you insist—”

You grasped onto each arm and began to lift yourself out of the chair. Alma’s eyes widened and she lunged forward, coaxing you back into your seat, then turned to her children, each of whom were sitting with their legs crossed beneath them, hands joined neatly in their laps.

“If each of you could come and collect your plates from the kitchen,” she sighed, “I will permit you to eat out here.”

She fixed the blanket out over the grass and moved the pillows to the corners, watching her charges rush into the house. It was barely audible, but you thought you could hear her mutter under her breath, “I’ll deal with you later.”

_Later_ , however, turned out to be less exiting than you expected. Throughout the afternoon, she continued to drop hints that she had planned something for the two of you that evening, but you found yourself absolutely  _exhausted_ by the time dinner was set. You ate mostly in silence, ignoring the few interruptions—Hugh’s bees were constantly escaping his mouth and he was eventually asked to put a net around his head. You had a feeling he forgot to wear it more often than not—and made your way into the living room early, using Enoch again as a crutch.

He set you down carefully on one of the couches.

“Once Miss Peregrine’s finished with this phone call,” he explained in his usual, grumpy brogue, “we’ll start a movie. I’m sure she’s told you about Horace’s Peculiarity?”

He didn’t wait for you to answer, but excused himself back to the table, where the others were already beginning to clear their plates. Once you were alone, you laid back into the cushions and closed your eyes…Perhaps not your best decision. You vaguely recalled waking up when Alma sat behind you, pulling you into her lap, and the ‘ooh’s from the children when both your images appeared on the screen above. You just couldn’t remember what had shocked them so…

 

It was nearly pitch black outside. What little light filtered in through the gold-trimmed windows was dulled mostly by a grouping of grey storm clouds. Several moments passed before you realized you were not in your own room, but in the living room; another few before you noticed Alma curled up on the couch opposite you. Her hair was splayed beautifully over the pillow—blue, illuminated by the dwindling starlight, in stark contrast against a maroon backdrop.

She was so gorgeous. You couldn’t help but stare…

“Is everything alright?” she rasped. Her eyes opened quickly, but took time to focus on anything in particular; when she was finally able to distinguish you from the shadows, she smiled. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You’re too beautiful for this world.”

Alma let out a deep breath and pulled herself up onto her elbows.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Better,” you said, sitting up. You stretched your bad ankle and, sensing no pain or discomfort, pressed it into the floor. “All healed, I think. I get really tired whenever I’m healing…I think it’s my body’s way of preserving energy.”

“It’s almost one o’clock,” she whispered. “Would you like to go upstairs?”

You made a non-commital noise in the back of your throat and started towards the stairs. Alma followed you close behind…so close, in fact, that you could feel her hand on your shoulder as you mounted the steps. A shiver ran down your spine.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked, gripping your shoulder.

“Yes, Alma,” you laughed, “I’m fine.”

For the first time in days, you were able to walk yourself to your bedroom…But, as you placed your hand on the doorknob, Alma turned you around and led you to her room instead.

“I moved your things in here so that Emma could reclaim her room,” she whispered, “I hope you don’t mind. You should have seen how happy she was to be putting all your normal sheets and things back where they were supposed to be.”

Alma’s room was nothing like the others you’d seen: Emma’s had been rather plain (you supposed this was because she’d removed anything she didn’t want covered in blood before you’d arrived), and the living and dining rooms were both rather odd contradictions of homey and gaudy. Even the gardens were spectacular!

As you took your first steps into this new territory, however, you realized that nothing was as you had expected. The walls were a very pale white-blue and the bedsheets were a deep hue, almost black. All the rest was comprised the same dark brown wood. You didn’t know why the decoration startled you so, but you definitely felt as if you’d been caught off-guard by how  _normal_ it all seemed.

So far, in the lamplight, you could only make out the outlines of most of the furniture, but the large, queen-sized bed in the center of the room looked too inviting to ignore. You sat on the edge of the mattress and took a quick sweep of your surroundings: on the left, a tall wardrobe and desk sat on either side of a wide, ornate window; on the center wall, opposite the bed, was a vanity, not unlike the one in the bathroom, but covered in different compacts and products that, you were certain, Alma would look gorgeous without; and finally, to your right, another door, possibly leading to a closet of some sort.

You watched yourself in the vanity mirrors as Alma took a seat across from you on the bench.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s comfy. Oh, wait, you meant the room,” you blushed. “It’s nice…Do you—do you mind if I get undressed?”

Whereas Alma was already in her nightgown, you were still in your uncomfortable day clothes, bra and all. You could feel the underwire digging into your back.

“Of course.”

“Great,” you mumbled, immediately beginning to disrobe. You stood and shimmied out of your pants, then tossed your shirt onto the floor. The ymbryne watched you with intense adoration, trailing her eyes up and down your torso and legs as you unclipped your bra; her teeth were sunk firmly into the flesh of her bottom lip.

“Much better,” you sighed. With a final glance at Alma, you crawled into bed in nothing but your panties. “You coming?”

Her eyes widened and she ran, practically pushing the vanity bench over in her haste. She laid in bed beside you, extinguished the lamp on her nightstand, and wrapped an arm around your middle. In the darkness, you could only make out her pale, opal skin and piercing blue eyes, but you both remained like that: staring contentedly at one another, breathing in each other’s scent, sharing heartbeats and, eventually, kisses as you fell asleep.


	12. Slow on the Up-Take

Alma was  _adorable_ when she thought she was alone. You woke up the next morning to find her sitting at her vanity, twisting her face into different pouts and poses as she applied her lipstick: she kept smoothing and puckering her lips, parting and closing her mouth, like a confused and concerned fish moving at a snail’s pace. Her eyes were screwed up in an attempt to scrutinize her handiwork as close to the mirror as possible.

She’d chosen a rosier color than usual (it had always been the same blush tone) and you wondered if she’d also added a bit more rouge to her cheeks. The lines on her eyes were definitely a tad thinner; on her, it looked rather elegant. With one final glance in the mirror, she tucked the tube of lipstick back into its box.

“Good morning,” you whispered.

Alma’s eyes shot open and she jumped, nearly knocking one of her compacts off the table.

“(Y/N),” she laughed after a moment, “you scared me half to death.”

“Good morning,” you repeated playfully. You crawled toward her and planted yourself on your hands and knees on the edge of the mattress. Though you were on the bed, and she was on the low makeup bench, you were just barely eye level with her.

Alma stared at you incredulously.

“Good morning,” she giggled. “How did you sleep?”

“Surprisingly well,” you suppressed a grin as you stared—with a fake pout and wide innocent eyes—anywhere but at Alma, “for someone whose blanket kept getting stolen.”

“I did no such thing!”

“It’s so  _cold_ in here,” you laughed.

The morning air, truthfully, was a bit chilly for what you were used to, and though Alma didn’t seem to mind the slow breeze drifting through the window, you were in nothing but your underwear; in a playfully dramatic display, you rolled back and unraveled so that your feet and ankles were dangling off the end of the bed and pulled the top corner of the sheets over your torso.

Alma rolled her eyes. You adjusted the blanket so that it sat lower on your chest as she leaned over you, smiling.

“You’re cold?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

There was a devious look in her eyes—you could tell she was thinking up some plot, but you had no idea what it could possibly be. Hoping that she was going to crawl back into bed and stay there with you until breakfast, you nodded.

She made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, turned toward the mirror to examine her makeup again, then huffed, “I must really like you,” before leaning down to capture your lips with her own. Alma wasn’t one to pull away from a kiss for very long; rather, when you ran out of breath, she would move onto your jaw or throat and let you recover. She would trail kisses down toward your collarbone, touching every inch of skin along the way, or you would feel her warmth disappear and suddenly appear again in a very different spot. No matter how long she strayed, or how many times, she always returned to give at least a final peck to your lips. You had learned the day before never to assume that  _she_ would run out of air.

Therefore, when Alma pulled away from the kiss and took several long moments to study your face, her gaze soft and doe-eyed, you understood that you both were finished for now.

“Warmer?” she asked.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out save a long, deep breath. You were lightheaded, and you didn’t think that  _flushed_ could accurately describe how aggressively hot you felt at the moment: heat had set, not only on your face and neck where she had kissed you, but all across your chest. In the absence of voice, you nodded.

“You have a little bit of lipstick,” she giggled, trailing one hand from your mouth, to your cheek, all the way down one side of your neck and to the junction of your shoulder. “Aaaaall around here.”

You stared in awe, then, realizing what she’d just said, pulled yourself out of your inconsolable admiration. Lifting one hand, you wiped a section of her chin gently with the pad of your thumb.

“Your lines are all mucked up,” you rasped. “It looks so gorgeous on you.”

She smiled again; you swore you could feel your heart melt.

“I have to fix it before I make breakfast,” Alma sighed, sitting up on her knees. Her weight, pressing down on your middle, felt so comfortable and right, but you reluctantly nodded in agreement as she explained, “It’s almost seven already, so I should be making something quicker than usual…”

“Would you like my help?”

“Your ankle’s healed,” she said, her voice quiet and frayed, “isn’t it?”

You had forgotten about your ankle, actually. It felt normal again—the bones didn’t click or catch any nerves as you rotated it. Alma turned to watch you move it in slow, deliberate circles.

“Down in front,” you teased.

She sat up straighter and moved to follow your gaze; whichever way you wiggled, trying to catch a glimpse of your whirling foot, she would go that way, too. You tried pulling yourself from underneath, but she was straddling just below your hips and would tighten her legs together each time you tried to squirm your way out. When that didn’t work, you tried to sit up. With a devious smirk, she put both a hand on either shoulder and pushed you back, flat on the bed, then fell again to kissing you.

 

Miss Prissy was very particular about how the children saw her, despite having lived so long in the same house and seeing them, you assumed, at their worst. You, on the other hand, couldn’t care less; college had taught you how to forgive yourself and others for looking as if they’d just run a marathon in full makeup and pajamas (on more than one occasion, you’d woken up late and had to sprint to class in the previous day’s clothes and smudged mascara).

It was decided that you would make something simple to eat while she fixed her lipstick and put on something  _proper_. You stalked happily down to the kitchen—in a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, your hair up in a messy bun—careful while passing the children’s rooms that you didn’t wake anyone. You hadn’t actually  _been_ in the kitchen before, so it took you some time to experiment and guess and figure out where everything was located.

The job was simple: toast with jam and scrambled eggs. Some of the children preferred cinnamon sugar on their breakfast and that also had to be made.

You turned on the ancient stove and stood for a solid thirty seconds before concluding that, yes, there  _was_ heat coming up from the coils and you hadn’t done it wrong. It would be embarrassing to go all the way back upstairs just to admit you didn’t know how to work their stove. Once that was settled, you got together the eggs, salt, and pepper and began cracking the former into a large, rounded pan and—

“Good morning,” someone yawned.

You turned to find Hugh standing in the doorway in a pair of long, pale blue pajamas. He was a skinny boy with dark brown hair, oval face, and a tendency to let bees escape whenever he opened his mouth; one landed on his shoulder and a few buzzed around the hall.

“Morning.” You smiled. “Bit early, isn’t it?”

“Knew it wasn’t Miss Peregrine,” he said with a triumphant, prideful grin. “She walks different. Horace said I was loony, she’d never let you go down the stairs without her.”

You lifted your foot and gave it a little twirl.

“All better.”

“I’m going to go get dressed,” he yawned again, expelling bees into the room. “Smells good.”

The eggs sizzled in the pan beside you, threatening to burn if you didn’t stir them—you’d completely forgotten what you were doing. You reached onto the adjacent counter and grabbed a wooden spoon. By the time you had stirred the eggs and added the salt and pepper, Hugh had already disappeared up the stairs.

He wasn’t the only one to make an appearance before breakfast. It was five minutes before the children were meant to meet you in the dining room; Alma had already taken the plates, silverware, and drinks to begin setting the table and you had the eggs and toast in separate pans, both with the lids on to keep them warm. Alma’s bottom lip had stiffened for a fraction of a second when she first saw them, which told you she would have gone about it a different way and chose not to say anything.

Just as you were mixing cinnamon and sugar into one of the bowls that Alma had given you for the toppings (two different jams, cinnamon sugar, melted butter, and marmalade), Claire traipsed into the kitchen with a very awake, very pretty Emma in tow.

“Good morning,” they said together.

“Hugh said you were down here, but we needed to see it for ourselves.”

“How are you feeling?” Claire asked with a soft lisp. “Did you walk here all by yourself?”

It was astounding to see two children—a teenager and a girl no older than seven or eight, if you were being generous—so awake before breakfast. You knew that you wouldn’t even be this lively if it weren’t for a certain ymbryne, who had a habit of making your heart beat impossibly fast every time she looked at you. At home, you’d made a habit of choosing afternoon and evening classes, because you had trouble keeping your eyes open through any lecture before noon, which was normally when you finally forced your ass out the door to grab a coffee.

But Claire and Emma were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at  _seven in the morning_ …and even more astounding was how good Emma looked: hair brushed, no bags beneath her eyes (like the purple-blue ones you sported almost always), rosy cheeks and a wide, glossy smile. Alma may not have been her mother, but Emma nevertheless inherited her grand ability to appear flawless when everyone else was wiping sleep out of their eyes and hoping no one notices that they missed a shower.

“Yes.” You beamed down at the little girl, wondering how such a small package could hold so much hope and enthusiasm. “I did it all by myself.”

She ran up to you and wrapped her arms around your legs; her gold curls bounced with every happy step. Emma remained in the doorway.

“Did you do it yet?” Claire mumbled into your knees.

“Do what, sweetie?”

She pulled back just enough to look up at you, then buried half her face bashfully into her shoulder, the rest covered by a mess of curls.

“Did you tell her yet?” she asked. When all you did was cock your head in response, she tried to clarify, “Horace’s dream last night. You said—”

_That_ certainly got Emma moving; before you had time to do more than furrow your eyebrows, she was taking Claire by the hand and muttering about how they had to help their headmistress set the table. Alma came in just as they were leaving, however, and they picked up their pace. Something was definitely up.

“Do you know what they’re up to?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

“That’s very odd,” she continued with a little smirk. “ _You’re_ not getting into any trouble, are you?”

Alma began to place the bowls of jams, marmalade, and sugar onto a thin silver tray and you came up behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist. She was a bit taller than you, so your chin only barely cleared her shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered.

“You’re definitely getting into trouble, then.” She was trying to be funny, but there was a strange, guttural heaviness to her voice, as if she were holding back tears. “I need to bring these in—”

Alma pulled herself out of your arms and picked up the tray. But before she could leave the room, you placed both your hands on either of her shoulders and stopped her; she didn’t resist.

“Alma, something’s wrong,” you pressed, your voice low so that you wouldn’t accidentally gain any attention from the children, “what is it? Did I say something wrong?”

“Breakfast needs to be on the table, and everybody in their seats—including you—in thirty-seven seconds. This isn’t that important, (Y/N). I simply got ahead of myself. We can talk about it afterward.”

For the first few minutes of breakfast, it was all you could think about. The children kept grinning and giggling and giving you both strange, hopeful and expectant looks. Alma, for one, was incredibly good at hiding her giddiness: every now and again, a faint tinge of pink would start to emerge and emphasize the rouge already on her cheeks, but she’d take a breath, or stare down at her plate for a moment longer than usual, and all signs of blushing would be gone.

You, on the other hand, weren’t trying to hide anything. Your face was red, you were grinning like an idiot, and you kept twirling stray stands of hair that had fallen out of your messy bun. It only got worse whenever Alma and you made eye contact, which wasn’t too often, considering she sat at the head of the table, right beside you. Claire, who sat directly across the table, was looking between the two of you like she was watching a tennis match.

When the meal was finally over, everyone helped to clean up: Hugh, Horace, and Bronwyn carried everyone’s dishes and silverware into the kitchen; Claire followed them with the jam/butter/cinnamon sugar bowls, the smallest things she could find to carry; the twins threw it all into the sink; Fiona ran around and found everyone’s used napkins; Emma and Olive stood over the sink and washed and dried everything the younger children brought them; and Enoch trailed behind all the rest, cleaning up small, left-over messes in the dining room and helping whenever it looked like one of the others was struggling to carry something in their hands. You and Alma wiped down the dining table. You couldn’t recall seeing Millard anywhere, no pun intended.

“That’s good enough,” she dismissed the girls, “Miss (Y/L/N) and I can get it from here.”

You watched them hurry out of the kitchen—sharing knowing looks just outside the doorway when they thought no one could see them—then caught another glimpse of Emma through the window as she joined Bronwyn and Claire’s tea party. Olive, however, slunk up the stairs.

“We never did anything like that,” you admitted after a few minutes of peaceful silence.

“They behave themselves,” Alma smirked. “I trust them to be alone together, though I do make a point to let them know I keep an eye on them.”

It took you a moment to realize she was talking about Enoch and Olive, who, you had noticed recently, had a ‘thing,’ though you doubted they’d ever done more than do projects together. It was no secret that Enoch could make inanimate objects, even corpses, come (back) to life, at least in a physical sense, or that he holed up most of the time in his room to practice…that was how Alma had put it anyway.

“Oh, oh…no, that’s not—I mean, that’s fantastic, I just meant,” you sputtered. You were trying to figure out how to say what you were thinking without sounding stupid and improper; Alma watched you curiously. “My family ate together and everything, we just never did it like  _that_.”

“What do you mean?”

“We never had family meals,” you explained, “except for holidays and, sometimes, you know, when other people came over.”

You were so embarrassed by this confession, staring transfixed at a spot on the floor, that you almost didn’t notice the hopeful spark in Alma’s eyes, or the subtle hitch in her breathing as she tried to keep it steady. When she spoke, her voice was thin and cracked.

“ _Had?”_


	13. Unpleasant Matters

Their daily walk: it was something you’d heard about every day since you regained consciousness, but, between being confined to bed and keeping weight off your ankle, you’d never actually been able to join them. By most counts, it wasn’t anything spectacular; you knew this, yet you felt indescribably fantastic just being able to stretch your legs and feel the cold breeze that came up off the ocean blow through your hair.

You hadn’t even realized they were preparing for their walk at first. Alma had been leading you through the yard, checking on the children as always, and simply began to veer toward the road. There you both stood for several seconds and, lo and behold, the children followed, all at an increasing pace as their headmistress’s pocket watch ticked on; Fiona and Hugh only just made it two seconds before the silver case snapped shut and Alma looked over them all, a proud smirk tugging at one corner of her lips.

“Well done,” she praised. Then, turning on her heels, she held out her arm for you to take and whispered. “Care to join us?”

“Perhaps,  _this_ time,” you giggled. Your cheeks burned from smiling and you knew you were blushing.

A few minutes later, when all you could see of the house through the trees behind you was the tallest chimney and a single attic window, Claire found her way to the front and gently tugged the hem of your shirt.

“Yes?” you asked.

“Can I hold your hand?” She was so small now, not in size or age, but in confidence. There was no possible way for you to say no, not with her looking up at you so with those large blue eyes, which held so much hope; it was as if her tiny world would collapse under the weight of that word. So, you said the only thing you could manage:

“Of course!”

Both of your hands had been up—with one arm wrapped around Alma’s at the elbow, and the opposite crossed over your middle so that your hand rested on her upper arm—but you unfolded yourself and offered the little girl something to hold on to. Claire beamed and grasped three of your fingers, her own hand being too small to grab yours entirely.

Beside you, Alma pouted.

“Be good,” you chided her, keeping your voice low so that none of the children could hear. “You can get it back later tonight.”

Alma bit her bottom lip. You knew that the pout had been mostly for show—she would never contest to you giving her charges all the love and care they deserved, even if it meant having to share you—but this reaction was real. No matter how nervous she had become the previous day, with your legs spread wide before her, she did want you. The heat that she constantly sparked in your lower stomach was the same one she felt whenever you suggested something like this. That this prissy, proper woman would find use for your hands while the two of you were alone that evening was one thing, that she had imagination enough to surmise what that could mean was another entirely; you were impressed, if you were being honest, and a little more than excited to find out what her mind had jumped to first.

The walk only took about a half an hour (knowing Alma, it was some precise time, but you weren’t certain if it was twenty-five minutes, thirty, forty, etc.). The children collected, once again, at the edge of where the front yard met the street, and waited for Alma to dismiss them all. When it was time, Claire reluctantly let go of your fingers and darted around the back of the house, muttering an inaudible thank you as she went.

“They adore you,” she said, making her way leisurely around the house with you still wrapped around one arm. “I can’t say that I blame them. You really do seem to love them.”

“I do, Alma.” It was a strange admission, and one that you had thought obvious. Alma, however, was looking at you as if deciding whether or not you were being honest. “They’re so wonderful and really well behaved, but…I mean, that’s not that important to me. It’s how much they care about each other—and about you—that makes me think I’d love them all regardless. You really do have a bunch of sweethearts here.”

She squeezed your arm, but didn’t respond. In her silence, you brought up the one thing that had slipped your mind for days and was now eating away at you…

“I promised my mother I’d call her at the end of the week,” you sighed, “so I think I’m going to go to the mainland tomorrow and get that out of the way. Do you do anything on Sundays?”

Alma didn’t answer you again, but this time you felt her silence was different; she wasn’t content any longer. Sensing that you’d just put her in a sour mood, you tried to reassure her.

“I’ll only be gone for the afternoon, and, well, maybe all night—it really depends on how late it is when I get back to Cairnholm—but I promise I’ll be right back as soon as I can.”

There was a pause: Alma scanned the yard as the twins ran down one aisle, chasing after a ball Hugh had just kicked. You thought she was possibly ignoring you until, without meeting your eyes, she said in her usual, smooth voice, “We don’t have anything to do on Sunday. I expect you back in time for brunch in bed.”

Alma left you in charge of watching the back yard as she left to ‘take care of something,’ which, you assumed, probably had to do with Enoch and Olive, since they were the only ones out of sight. You thought that the matter was more or less settled; that evening, however, while you helped her to set the table for dinner, Alma confronted you about one of her fears.

“What will you say to your mother tomorrow?”

Alma normally had very sharp head and eye movements, but you found that she often became less rigid whenever she was trying to work some sort of angle, the same way you became more anxious when you tried to scare the answers out of her in an ambush the other day…the slow, languid way she was turning her head, looking from you to the dinner plates and back, seemed unnatural for her. It was almost startling.

“I’m just going to say hello,” you said, “and ask about how things are going there. Why?”

Alma shrugged her shoulders: another thing she didn’t normally do.

“I was just curious if you were going to mention us is all. Things can become a little difficult when children decide to explain their Peculiarities from a distance.” You followed her back into the kitchen, where she peered at her pocket watch and took the turkey out of the oven without so much as a glance at the bird to make sure it was finished. “Personally, I’ve never seen that happen, as none of my children had anyone to whom they thought they owed an explanation, but other ymbrynes have told me in passing—discussing Peculiardom in a letter or over the telephone only dredges up more questions than answers. They try to dissuade their charges from doing either.”

“I’m not a child,” you reminded her, “or one of your charges. But I understand what you mean. I don’t think I’d bother telling her about all this—not the Peculiar parts, anyway—I just don’t want her to panic.”

“What else will you say?”

From the way that she was standing with her back to the counter, you knew you had plenty of time. You sighed, preparing yourself for what you thought was about to come, and asked:

“Alma, what are you looking for?”

“I don’t discuss unpleasant matters,” she muttered, but it was only halfheartedly.

“I’m not a child,” you repeated.

Alma was a strong woman, but there were tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. You reached up to wipe them away with your thumbs just as the first began to fall and she grabbed your upper arms, keeping you there, one hand on either side of her face.

“I want to know, (Y/N),” she said, her bottom lip trembling. “Are you going to tell her that you’re staying here…or are you planning on leaving still?”

You shook your head.

“It’s only been a couple of days, Alma, I’m not ready to say goodbye…” your voice trailed off a moment as she nuzzled into one of your palms, “but I don’t want to leave you either.”

 


	14. The Reset

It was no surprise to you that Alma was more silent than usual during supper; you kept looking over at her and giving her little nudges with your foot under the table. By the end of the meal, you’d coaxed a couple of smiles out of her, which was more than you’d hoped for—if anything, she was more put off by the uncertainty of it all (the probability that you could leave), than by your tone: you’d made it clear that you wanted to stay. The children, of course, had noticed her quietness and were wary of stepping on toes.

The first real change happened when the telephone rang. You could vaguely remember it happening the night before at around the same time, but you’d completely forgotten about it until now. Alma excused herself from the table and asked that everyone do their part in cleaning up.

“She’s talking to Abe,” Emma explained as they each picked up their plates (dinnertime clean-up was a lot less organized than that of breakfast, which, you surmised, was completely due to the absence of a certain ymbryne’s scrutiny). “He left before the Loop was made.”

The others had all filed into the kitchen and you could hear the youngest children already finding seats in the living room to watch the movie.

“Why did he leave?” you asked.

“Abe was part of the war,” she said, her voice soft. “He didn’t feel right being protected in a Loop while other people were out fighting. Of course, his Peculiarity was particularly useful.”

You gave her a curious look and she continued, “He could see hollows.”

Another curious look, met by an equally devious one.

“I’m not allowed to tell you,” she smirked, “but you should ask Miss Peregrine.”

 

Horace’s dreams were not always spectacular, as you’d been led to believe; he mostly dreamt about clothes. It was rather boring, sitting in a semi-circle in the living room, staring up at a screen where the only action taking place included measuring tapes and sewing needles. The one good thing about the film, however, was the position you were in: Alma had seated herself right beside you on the couch and you laid back into her, resting your head against her shoulder. You could feel her breathing and hear her heartbeat.

Just as you thought the movie was about to end and the screen began to dissipate into blackness, you realized that another scene was beginning to focus. It was different from all the ones before it: the lines were clear, whereas the others had been blurry around the edges, and it was set in the dreary marsh outside of the Loop entrance instead of some old-timey tailor shop.

With a quick glance around the room, you realized that, no, this was not a normal dream: the children were all furrowing their brows and turning towards one another, exchanging curious looks, some whispering behind open palms. Alma placed a hand on your lap, almost as if to keep you safe.

The dream hadn’t changed much—a man trudged through the swamp now, getting nearer and nearer to the entrance, then, overlooking the cairn through which you remembered crab walking almost a week prior, he turned to a much more enticing mountain peak and began to climb. Though he was little more than a silhouette in the diluted, evening light, you could distinctly see his blinding, white eyes as he peered through the trees.

You knew him. Well, you didn’t  _know_ him, but you recognized him from your trip. He had been in the café before your departure to Cairnholm from the mainland, waiting to use the phone while your mother rambled on…his eyes hadn’t been white then—perhaps he used contacts—but, with what you could see of his face in Horace’s vision, he was definitely the same man. He even wore the same, exasperated scowl, with lips pursed and nose flattened, so that his breathing was louder than necessary.

“That’s enough, Mr. Sumnusson,” Alma said in a loud, stern voice.

Horace took the strange, metallic piece out of his eye and the screen immediately went white.

“If you would all prepare for Reset,” she continued once the children’s worried murmurings had died down. Then she turned to you and her gaze softened. “Follow me.”

You all huddled in the yard, each person in their own gas mask, looking like characters from some post-apocalyptic movie; with so much rain, and so little light coming through the purple-blue thunderclouds above, you had a difficult time seeing through the mask, but you followed Alma’s movements several feet off despite the strange, new lens. Sometime while the children were all hurrying to put on their masks and explain to you how Reset worked, Alma had donned her own and placed a record player (of all things) in the center of the yard; an umbrella was attached to the table on which it sat in order to keep the machine dry.

You had heard the all of the commotion from the planes one of the previous nights, so it was no surprise to you when they began to rumble and pass overhead. Alma placed the needle on the edge of the record and an unfamiliar melody began to play; through the din, you couldn’t quite make out the lyrics.

It wasn’t a minute later that the final plane came. A hatch opened in the bottom, just barely visible through the darkness, and you could see the outline of the bomb as it dropped right for the house…Then Alma wound the hands on her pocket watch backward and everything—the sky, the planes, the rain, the music—followed suit; even the air itself seemed to shift, not like it does when there’s a tangible wind, but as if it were dissipating and being replaced simultaneously. When the storm clouds reappeared and the rain began to fall again, you knew that you were back in September 2nd.

Alma removed her mask and the children cheered (something you guessed they only did whenever someone new watched).

“That was absolutely beautiful,” you said, clapping along.

“Thank you,” she mumbled in a very fast, very stunted way that made you think she rarely uttered this phrase. “I’ve been waiting to show you at least part of my Peculiarity for some time now. You’ve still yet to see me transform.”

“So modest,” you teased.

You walked back into the house hand-in-hand. Behind you, the children began whispering again. You knew that it had something to do with Horace’s vision, but you couldn’t quite figure out what had startled them so; from what Alma had told you, you knew that only Peculiars could enter Loops, meaning there was no reason to be afraid that some nasty, prejudiced Normal would walk in and ruin their paradise, accidentally or otherwise. That led you to believe that there were was reason to fear other Peculiars, which didn’t make sense to you at all.

Then you remembered what Emma had said about Abe leaving to fight…what had she called them? Hollows? At the time, it hadn’t made sense to you—there was no historic documentation of a group called ‘Hollows’ during any of the great wars—but you now wondered whether or not Emma could have been referring to a war, not of epic scale in a global sense, but one, rather, that encompassed all of Peculiardom. 


	15. The Missed Transformation

Alma put all of the children to bed, as she always did, starting with the youngest girls at one end of the hall, then moving on to the middle boys, and finally giving the oldest three each a stern reminder that they  _should_ be going to sleep soon (though, you assumed that she gave them some leeway, since you would never remember a time when she explicitly told them to go to bed that instant). By the time she returned to her room, you were already undressed and tucked beneath the sheets.

“You look very comfortable,” she said.

“I am,” you teased, “thank you.”

You knew that everyone was still shaken from the dream, though no one had cared to explain it to you yet. Alma was tense as she undressed; her gaze kept falling on you, then to the floor, then to the clothes that now were laid in a heap at her feet. To anyone else, she might have looked as if she were trying to make up her mind, but you knew it was already made—this was her, taking her time to convince herself to do the thing she’d already resolved to do.

“As part of my duties,” she began to explain, her tone exasperated, “I must sometimes leave the Loop to make certain that the entrance is safe.”

“You’re afraid that Horace’s vision is going to come true…”

A pause.

“Yes, I am.” Her eyes met yours briefly, then she turned toward the open window and looked out over the trees, as if expecting someone to be lurking somewhere on the ridge. “It would be best if you stay here for the time being.”

“I can’t call home tomorrow?” you asked, sure of the answer.

“Leaving can endanger both you and my children.” She didn’t elaborate; you knew she wouldn’t.

“I understand that you don’t want to tell me what’s going on,” you muttered, sinking back into the pillows. “But, if that man is dangerous, I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful.”  

She traced her hand over the window frame.

“Keep this open.”

 

You had imagined watching her transform in bright, yellow sunlight, surrounded by a vast array of color from the garden, or doused in pale moonlight by the beach. Always beautiful, always drawn out for the spectacle of such a rare and wonderful gift. Never had you thought it’d be like this: rushed, without much emphasis, in the shadows of her bedroom. The first glimpse of her as a peregrine falcon was as she retreated through the window and you couldn’t suppress that part of you that wished this moment had taken place, at least, in better circumstance.

You kept the window open as she had asked, hoping that the cold wind and rain that blew gently in were signs that Alma would be coming home.

“Move over, darling,” she whispered.

You’d been pretending to sleep—the blankets pulled up to your ears to stave off the chill—when she soared in through the window without making a sound; you only knew she’d returned when the window was suddenly pulled shut and the small, short gusts from the breeze transformed into a quiet patter of raindrops against the glass. Perhaps her footsteps would not have woken you up, but the dip in the mattress would have. By the time she spoke, you were ready to answer.

“Of course,” you mumbled.

Her arm settled around your waist and her chin rested on your shoulder; each warm breath blew down your bare chest.

“I would prefer if you’d wait a day or two before leaving the Loop,” she said after a few minutes of silence. “He might still be out there.”

You swallowed your frustrations and muttered, “Alright, dear” before steadying your breathing and pretending, once again, to sleep.


	16. Frustration

But  _‘a day or two_ ’ turned into three days…three days of doing nothing but sitting around the house, trying to be interested in the  _Tales_ the fourth time through, and sharing stories about your personal life at home (since Alma forbade you to mention technologies that the children didn’t have access to—such as cellphones, laptops, and tablets, which, unfortunately, were a part of the majority of your anecdotes—a lot had to be edited out). After all of that time with no visible threat and no new visions, Alma was  _still_ convinced that there was something dangerous waiting to come in.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so terrible if you could all go outside and do your daily walk, but, after the first day with no sign of catching whoever had been lurking around the cairn entrance, the headmistress had made it clear that no one was allowed outside of the house. She said it was just in case the person somehow made it inside the Loop; you, however, were beginning to get suspiciuos.

The children were becoming restless, too. They wanted nothing more than to go down to the ocean or walk into town and play a prank on the villagers; Millard, who’d been recording the movements and habits of every person and animal on the island for years in order to be the first Peculiar to ever document the day of an entire town, was somewhat put off that he would have to stall this achievement (in truth, he wasn’t so perturbed by this as he was by the fact that he couldn’t do so as he pleased, which, in his mind, was worse). By Monday afternoon, he’d convinced you to read some of his writings, which he had scribbled into a small, weathered notebook like some old-timey New World anthropologist observing some undiscovered species in the wild.

Claire and Bronwyn took the twins hostage in the solarium so that their tea parties would be a little more exciting—though, after three days of constantly going between tea parties, actual meals, and excerpts from the  _Tales of the Peculiar_ , even the girls were getting bored.

Fiona, Hugh, and Horace kept going from room to room looking for new things to play with.

The only ones who seemed unaffected by it all were Enoch and Olive, who holed up in the former’s room most of the time to do goodness knows what with inanimate dolls and severed mouse hearts. You didn’t think you wanted to see any of their little projects—Fiona said they had a tendency to make their creations  _fight_ , which was more than a little off putting and macabre—but you did eventually skulk upstairs to watch Enoch form a new, human-like figure out of clay, open a cavity in its chest, place a heart inside, then command it to stab itself with what looked to be a miniature wooden sword.

“I used to train them to fight wars,” he explained once, looking up at you with a self-amused grin, “but they kept killing themselves by accident. Terribly clumsy, the lot of them.”

“Sorry to hear that,” you lied.

The only things that really held anyone’s interest anymore were Horace’s dreams; everyone would hold their breath at the slightest change of pace or setting, as if he’d give them some clue that would release them from this nightmarish boredom. But, for the third time in a row, there was nothing in them but  _clothes_ …The children all sulked as they gathered to watch Reset.

Alma didn’t seem as disappointed as the rest; however, she was acting differently. She was far more protective of the children, and of you, barely allowing any of you to be apart from her for more than ten minutes. For the most part, she stalked from room to room, checking windows and making sure that everyone was behaving. When she would cook, however, the children were made to stay in one of the adjacent rooms, or in the hall, where she could easily keep an eye on them.

Your relationship didn’t suffer so much as it was put on hold. She really only had time to be with you after the children were asleep—save those short moments when they were occupied, allowing her to hold you close and kiss you before moving on to her next chore, or checking on another room. You had been so frustrated with these short bursts of intimacy that you finally snapped.

Alma now had made of habit of transforming and searching the Loop entrance just before bed, meaning you had approximately ten minutes to finish. After a quick glance into the hall outside her bedroom to make sure that none of the children had gotten out of bed in her absence, you laid down on your back and pulled the sheets up to your waist. With one hand, you reached up to play with one nipple and, with the other, you trialed down your stomach and under the elastic band on your panties; you’d considered doing this many times since waking up in the Loop, but you were  afraid that it would be wrong—neither of the beds you’d occupied were yours, and you didn’t know how open Alma would be to the idea of you masturbating, under her sheets or any other.

You were past that, though…you really needed to feel that heat disappear and, if Alma wasn’t comfortable doing it for you, then you needed to take care of it yourself. You slipped one finger in between your folds and began to rub up and down your lips with your fingertip, teasing your clit each time by stopping just below the place where electricity was building. The first few strokes were damp, but not enough for your liking; you continued to push back and forth, eventually pressing the base of your finger down on your clit as you teased your entrance. Your hips began to join in as you found a steady rhythmn.

Then, with a sigh, you pushed in easily up to the knuckle.

But it wasn’t enough. You switched breasts, deciding to tease the opposite nipple instead, and tried to vary the speed of your thrusts, but it felt so calculated and forced that you found yourself focusing on focusing rather than focusing on your own body.

And now, more than half of your ten minutes were gone. Great.

In one last-ditch effort to get rid of your frustration, you began circling your clit with your thumb, never straying from the bud, even when it became almost painful to touch. As you drew closer to coming, your toes curled and your hips fell out of rhythmn; so too, your circles grew faster and less precise until you were simply pushing down hard and dragging your finger over the nerves. It wasn’t the best orgasm you’d ever had, nor was it as graceful as you’d hoped—you were a little sticky from sweat and you realized that your later movements had been sporadic, causing the springs in the mattress beneath you to creak a bit—but you had gotten rid of the awful need that had begun to consume you.

Any second now, Alma would come soaring in through the open window and notice that you were a mess. Checking to make sure she wasn’t already in sight, you pulled your hand out of your panties, careful not ot get anything on the sheets, and brought it up to your face to examine it. You weren’t as wet as you’d normally like; still, there was enough there that you had to be rid of it, or else Alma would definitely notice. Wrapping your lips around your middle finger, you drew your tongue over the stickiest parts, clearing the worst of the mess.

You were glad you did so, too, because she chose then to make her appearance. It was easy to quickly pretend as if you weren’t just sucking on your finger, but it would be a bit more difficult to hide your hand, which she loved to hold whenever it wasn’t wrapped around some part of her body.

“You’re still awake,” she groaned, falling into bed beside you. “Good. I was hoping to kiss you before—”

She paused; she was leaning in to kiss your lips, as she always did, and you turned your head. Alma raised an eyebrow.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” you mumbled. You couldn’t let her unknowingly taste your cum…you just  _couldn’t_. “I just really need the restroom.”

But she knew that you were up to something. With a sly smirk, she grabbed your wrist and peered down at your finger, which was still a bit slick, with slitted eyes. One hand wound itself into your hair and she leaned down to kiss you. It wasn’t like all the other times—she wasn’t doing this as exploration, or out of passion and care. She was proving a point. Her tongue ran across your bottom lip and, when your mouth parted slightly in surprise, she used the opportunity to push inside; you could feel her clumsily tracing your teeth and tongue with her own, pressing herself harder against your body. When you thought she’d finished surprising you for the moment, she moaned into your mouth.

That was what really caught you off guard; your hips jerked forward—so minimally that you were almost certain Alma wouldn’t notice, though, of course, she did. One hand drifted down to your core and began to trace your folds over the damp fabric of your panties. She was slow at first, giving you time to breathe, but she quickly picked up the pace; her talons scraped against your clit with every other swipe of her thumb and you couldn’t help but moan back, pulling away from the kiss when she slipped her hand underneath the elastic of your panties.

The feeling of her directly against your skin was too much. You were almost ashamed of how quickly you came, but Alma didn’t seem to mind; she kept running her fingers gently over your nerves as you came down and, when your body finally relaxed enough so that you lay flat against the bed again, she leaned in for another peck.

“Still need the restroom?”

“N-no,” you whimpered.

“Good,” she hummed, burying her head in your neck and laying half on top of you, her hand still inside the fabric of your underwear. One thumb ran lazily back and forth across your inner thigh. “Good night, (Y/N).”


	17. The Visiting Ymbryne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's been so long since I last updated; school has been terrible. Chapters 17-20 are all together on my tumblr as Part 5 and there will be at least one, if not two, more parts coming up...

It was time to discuss it again: leaving. You had to call your mother, or she would think that something terrible had happened…well, something terrible  _had_  happened, only you were better off for it now. You still weren’t certain exactly what you were going to say—because  _Hey, mom. It’s only been, like, nine days, but I’ve fallen down a mountainside, healed completely, met a bunch of mutant children_  (any explanation of Peculiarities would be  _way_  beyond her) _, oh, and I’ve fallen in love with a woman who uses a pocket watch to keep her children young…How’s your week going?_  didn’t really seem like a rational approach—and you’d stayed up much of the night, imagining entire conversations in your head.

Alma woke you up early so that the two of you could lay in bed together before breakfast; she liked to rest her head on your chest and curl up into your side, often running one hand up and down the opposite arm or teasing your hips and breasts with feather-light touches. In these moments, there was no urgency, no need to be the Headmistress, perfect and prim and proper, or usher her children through their morning routines. It was something she had only begun to do since Horace’s strange dream, but you fit so comfortably to each other’s forms that it felt like you’d been together for ages.

She placed a gentle kiss to the inside of your shoulder.

“What has you so tense?” Alma asked, placing a hand above your heart. “Let’s talk.”

You were exhausted, and not really in the right state of mind, nor the mood, to discuss everything that was worrying you, but Alma was the most wonderful woman you’d ever met and it made her happy to talk things through, despite the fact that she “never discusses unpleasant matters”: it had quickly become apparent that this particular rule only applied when she wanted it to.

“I’m thinking about my mother,” you confessed in a whisper. “And about my roommate Emily, and my dad…”

You could feel Alma tense beneath you, then the stress left her body, leaving her heavy and limp—almost as if she were sleeping. For a moment, she simply lay there, contemplating what she was going to say, but there was no doubt that she needed to be the next one to speak. When she did finally respond, it was in a voice so detached from her personality that you wondered how such a cold, calculated sound could emanate from someone so vibrant.

“If you leave,” she rasped, “I’m afraid that I will never see you again.”

An indigo curtain had been pulled across the window, casting the bed in faint gold and navy glow; Alma, almost luminescent in her paleness, always caught the best of the light and, now, seemed to be bending it to her will, tinting her skin an incandescent shade of blue topaz. She looked, you thought, like a living reflection of the sea—with each breath, the pattern changed, back and forth, like the tide rising and receding.

“I’m staying until Saturday,” you reassured her, but your statement did very little to do so. In fact,  _you_  weren’t even convinced by it. What was the point, if you were just going to leave that week anyway?  _That_  was what she was most afraid of. “I don’t know what will happen after I leave, but…but I think that I could visit next summer, if I save up enough for the plane tickets.”

“That’s a terrible ‘if.’”

In your heart, you knew it was true. Leaving now would mean never coming back; or, at least, not coming back for a very,  _very_  long time. You certainly didn’t have the money and you might not for years.

Alma laid still for the next half-an-hour, savoring your warmth until the time compelled her to start readying herself for the day. She did her makeup first, barely moving her head so that her rigid gaze never landed on you, then dressed while keeping her eyes on the floor; you stayed in bed until almost seven o’clock and only got up when you knew breakfast was nearly ready to be served.

 

The children had all beaten you downstairs.

“Good morning,” Claire said, rushing over to hug your legs as you reached the ground floor.

“Good morning, sweetie.”

She was adorable, as always, with her golden curls bouncing around her shoulders, rosy cheeks, and large, doe eyes.

“How are you today?” you asked.

She shrugged her shoulders while keeping her arms wrapped firmly around your calves, her head resting between your knees. You tried to shuffle toward the kitchen, but she wouldn’t let go; you began to wonder if something was amiss. Then Emma’s head poked out from the dining room and the house went immediately silent.

“We have a guest.” She tried to sound calm, but you could see something working behind those eyes—her cheeks were blanched and she was wearing down her bottom lip. “Come  _on_.”

Of course, having a guest meant stricter punctuality. You didn’t see who it was that had stopped by, since she and Miss Peregrine were having a quiet conversation in the living room—you could just barely hear their voices floating beneath the double doors—but you and the children were each tasked with setting some part of the table in their headmistress’s absence.

“It must be urgent,” you supposed, once the younger children were out of earshot; Enoch, Emma, and Olive were all assisting you with plating, “if she’s letting us all do this chore without her.”

Even if she wasn’t active during certain jobs, Alma was overseeing the children, so it was more than a bit unusual for her to be in an entirely different part of the house…assuming it was something trivial they were discussing. The only way it would make sense would be if, say, she actually were to discuss unpleasant matters.

The three all watched each other guiltily, reading each other’s faces until Olive, apparently having the weakest resolve, took pity on you and muttered, “An ymbryne arrived this morning…We think it might have something to do with the wight in Horace’s dream.”

There was a faint shadow cast just at the base of the stairs, though you could perceive most of the children chatting down the hall, and you began to wonder whether or not this information was something worth wanting to overhear.

“What’s a white?” you asked.

Olive looked to Emma for approval, or, perhaps, for a plea bargain. The latter sighed and rested back against the sink.

“Remember what I said about the Hollows?” she said, her gaze distant once again. “How Abe left to fight them during the war? Well, wights are practically the same thing, except…”

“What?”

“Except that you can  _see_  them,” she muttered, as if invisibility were something entirely new to you. “It’s a long story, which Miss Peregrine  _should_  tell you,” you could sense the bit of defiance in her tone, that she did not approve of the way her ymbryne had avoided the subject for so long, “but the gist of it is this: years ago, a group of Peculiars devised an experiment to harness an ymbryne’s power. They  _wanted_  to become immortal, but they ended up turning into Hollowghasts—invisible creatures that can only regain their Peculiarities by eating the eyes of Peculiars.”

You glanced down at the plate of hard boiled eggs on the counter and turned squeamishly away.

“If they have enough eyes, they become wights,” she continued, handing the last few plates of food to Olive and Enoch just as the door to the living room swung open. “Pass me the eggs, would you?”

“Of course.”

The shadow by the stairs had disappeared, replaced now by an older woman in a plain grey dress, high heels, a hand-knit shawl. Her hair, which she had tied up into a loose bun, was beginning to grey and her soft, powder blue eyes were narrowed behind a pair of ancient half-moon spectacles. So far as you could tell, she was staring up at a picture on the opposite wall, but her focus snapped to you the moment you stepped out of the kitchen doorway.

“Chickadee!” she sang in her raspy tone, holding her arms out wide. “Come give me a hug.”

You did so, albeit cautiously, as if you thought this could be some sort of trick. She waited as you took baby steps down the hallway, then wrapped her thin arms around your shoulders and pulled you in close.

“Oh, I’ve missed you so much!” she said, shaking you playfully in her embrace. “I tell your parents to come and visit every year, but they never listen.”

You were still a bit confused, and it must have shown on your face since Alma, who had been watching from the dining room entry up until now, made her way into the hall and stood perpendicular beside you both, as if she were about to introduce you two for the first time. But rather than _(Y/N), this is Miss Waxwing. Miss Waxwing, (Y/N) (Y/L/N)_ , like her children (doing their best to eavesdrop from their places at the table, of course) had expected, Alma instead put a hand on the dip of your lower back and said in a cheerful, confident voice:

“Your grandmother decided to visit, since you’re in the country.”

Then Millard coughed, and the whole dining room came to life with halfhearted conversation.


	18. Barely Filling in the Missing Pieces

The children knew Miss Waxwing, so much of breakfast was, rather than a discussion of  _your_  relationship (thank goodness), a barrage of questions about her own charges, how they were faring and who was still left in the Loop. Every now and again, Alma would remind them not to bother a guest with too many inquiries, but your grandmother didn’t seem to mind; she simply smiled and answered anything she could, explaining little things with bits of context you had surely missed.

You had so much you wanted to ask! Why did she never tell you about Peculiardom? Why did  _Mom_  never tell you about Peculiardom? Was  _Mom_  Peculiar? Did no one ever suspect you were like them?

But you kept your mouth shut and simply absorbed every bit of information that floated by, quickly coming to the sad realization that these children—complete strangers only a week ago—knew more about your Grammy than you did.

Apart from monitoring the discussion, Alma also kept an eye on you, often touching your foot gently beneath the table or placing her hand on yours for a fraction of a moment, just long enough to squeeze it reassuringly and continue eating as if the contact had never occurred. Grammy noticed, of course, though she pretended not to, and you had the sneaking suspicion that she knew there was something going on between you and Alma.

“And how is Miss Cardinal?” Enoch ask pleasantly; he was a little disgruntled at having been moved from his normal spot at the head of the table, but he seemed to be on his best behavior.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Miriam is wonderful! Such a help around the home, what with all of those young things they keep sending me to sort out. Finds it hard to say good-bye when the time comes, of course, but she’ll overcome that urge.”

“First and foremost,” Alma interjected, “is the children’s well-being.”

“Exactly.” She looked between you and Alma once again, a soft smile tugging at her lips, and sent a resounding clap echoing through the room. “Alright, Alma, I suppose it must nearly be time—”

“Oh, yes,” she answered with a self-satisfied smirk. “Another twenty-three seconds, children, before breakfast must be cleared.”

You could tell she was proud; your grandmother might have been an ymbryne, but she was nowhere near as punctual or strict. Perhaps it had to do with her age. Grammy was only in her late sixties, if you remembered correctly (you had once cataloged several generations of your family tree, including birth and death dates, occupations, etc. because one of your in-class projects had inspired you to do further research), and Alma must have been more than one hundred years old…quite a gap, which could explain why your grandmother was so lackadaisical in comparison. Whatever the cause, Alma seemed pleased with herself.

After twenty-three seconds of light chatter, she nodded to her children, who began to clean the table immediately.

“I suppose you clean these right away,” Miss Waxwing asked innocently, but the question caused Alma to stiffen for a moment before replying.

“Oh, yes.”  _Isn’t it obvious?_

Though normally the children wouldn’t hang around the kitchen any longer than necessary, unless asked, today they were all too curious about Miss Waxwing’s appearance. Emma and Olive took to washing the dishes, Claire wrapped herself around your legs again so that you couldn’t leave, and Fiona and Hugh were racing to dry the dishes, if only to justify their extended presence. Even the twins sank into the corner of the room, hoping to continue to observe unseen. Horace, the only one who looked uninterested in the whole affair, accidentally stumbled back into Millard, giving away his hiding spot.

“Quite an audience,” your grandmother joked. She and Miss Peregrine dismissed the children, who took their leave as slowly as possible, shuffling awkwardly through the door and down the hall.

“You, too, Mr. Nullings,” Alma narrowed her eyes at a spot of shadow halfway to the second landing. “This is a private matter.”

“Yes, Miss Peregrine,” he muttered and you could hear his over-heavy footfalls as he climbed the staircase; you wondered why he chose to go up instead of down, and whether that meant he’d try to eavesdrop some time later, when the three of you had dropped your guard.

Once Alma was certain he was out of earshot, she gave a stunted nod.

“They mean well,” she explained, “though they’re especially curious when it comes to your granddaughter, Victoria. They love her terribly.”

Alma peered at you out of the corner of her eye and you felt the heat settle in your cheeks and chest.

“It seems they aren’t the only ones.”

“ _Grammy_ ,” you pretended to be scandalized in order to break the tension—one that only  _you_  seemed to perceive—then turned immediately to the sink, where several dishes were waiting to be dried. Behind you, both ymbrynes laughed at your dramatics.

“You two are no better at hiding your love affair than Mr. O’Connor and Miss Elephanta are at hiding their petty crush,” she said, placing a hand on your elbow. “And until you are, there’s no use feigning shame.”

You turned back around, but her hand remained tenderly in place. Alma realized that you two might want to discuss some personal family matters—or whatever she deemed worthy of privacy—and excused herself to “have a word” with Fiona. She led you both to the living room, which could be shut against curious passersby, squeezed your hand while your grandmother’s back was turned, and made her way into the gardens.

“If I might be frank,” Grammy continued once Alma was out of earshot. She cleared her throat, as if reconsidering her admission. “When your mother sent word that you were visiting Cairnholm, I had hoped to learn that you’d be training under Alma’s tutelage.”

“As an ymbryne?” you asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Hmm,” you murmured. You weren’t sure if she was disappointed, or if it was normal for the same Peculiarity to trail through a family lineage. So far as you could tell, they seemed entirely random, but you hadn’t really inquired about it before now; still, it seemed like the sort of thing someone would grieve, like a son who never showed the same athletic aptitude as his father.

Her eyebrows furrowed, then shot up quickly as she amended, “No, please don’t misunderstand me! I’m not upset in the slightest. I just assumed that your mother would never let you  _near_  a Loop unless she had some inkling of your Peculiarity, and you seemed a bit old to suddenly be…” she thought a moment, “be sprouting a backmouth, or something. Ymbrynes can easily fly under the radar—no pun intended—if you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

From where you were sitting on the sofa, you could see little Claire’s curls bouncing as she skipped passed the window (with another ymbryne in the house, Alma felt comfortable allowing the children the chance to go outside, so long as they stayed on the porch), then she dropped suddenly out of view; you winced. Your grandmother, who was facing the opposite window, thought you might have been offended by what she said, rather than some scene playing out behind her.

“I didn’t mean it badly—” she began, but you interjected.

“No, I think Claire’s fallen down.”

She turned around. Sure enough, Alma came at a jog to scoop the little one up into her arms; she placed the girl on her hips while the latter cried, cooing as she walked toward the house and out of sight.

“Poor thing.”

Then Alma’s heels clicked on the tile in the hall and the door swung open, revealing a contrast of yellow-gold and pink against dark blue.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Alma explained. “But Claire was wondering if she could get a kiss for her scrape.”

“Of course, honey.” Your voice was sickeningly sweet, even to your ears, but the little girl’s eyes softened when she heard it and, for a moment, the tears ceased to fall. “Come here, sit on my lap.”

It wasn’t until Alma turned her around that you could actually see the cut: a small, thin slit, barely bleeding. Most of the pain, you supposed, was in the pink area surrounding it, where she’d scraped up a very fine layer of skin. She was placed on your lap with her hurt knee lifted, so that her skirts wouldn’t aggravate it, and you wrapped one arm around her back. Claire shook and hiccuped and slumped against you.

“It’s alright, sweetie,” you whispered. “Here.”

You licked your lips as discreetly as possible, making sure there was enough salve to fix it all in one try.

“You ready?” you asked; she nodded into your shoulder. “Okay.”

You leaned down and kissed her knee. There was a slight hiss as the skin closed up again, then, in her surprise, she jerked her leg up toward her chest, but the thing was healed. Completely. There was no more blood, no more pain; Alma stood smirking above you as the little girl came to the realization that the weird noise and uncomfortable sensation—for there  _was_  a strange feeling to it, though you’d gotten used to it years ago—were both completely gone.

After a few second of stunned silence, she said in a tear-stained voice, “Well, that was fast,” and you and both ymbrynes fell immediately to a kind sort of laughter.

 

Alma gave you an hour or so to talk about what you wanted with your grandmother before taking charge once again; she swept into the living room with a unearthly glow about her and asked to have a word with Miss Waxwing in private. The doors were left open this time, however, so whatever it was they were discussing mustn’t have been so grave as before. You noticed Millard creeping along the wall, but he stopped when he noticed you staring and you continued on as if you hadn’t seen anything amiss.

When you next saw him—coming down the stairs for lunch—he was dressed in a tan pair of trousers, button-up shirt, and pair of thick, dark brown shoes, one of which he’d forgotten to lace up.

“Hear something good?” you asked, sidling up to him in the hallway.

“Nothing we didn’t expect.”

“A wight?”

He looked over his shoulders to make sure neither ymbryne was within earshot, then muttered, “They’ve been attacking Loops—just a matter of time before they find us here. Miss Waxwing thinks they may have already…”

You put two and two together.

“Because of me?”

“It isn’t your fault,” he said, starting towards the dining room as the other children came inside for lunch, but it wasn’t very reassuring.


	19. Waxwings and Bumblebees

Lunch passed, then the time of the children’s daily walk, and you still hadn’t gotten much more time to speak with your grandmother—not alone, at least. What you had learned about her were the topical things—like the names and Peculiarities of her children, the place she’d made her loop, and the fact that she, unlike Alma, often brought her charges in only for brief periods so that they could recuperate from their abusive families and be sent to a new home that fit their age and personality best—but you were still no closer to understanding why you never knew about Peculiardom in the first place.

You sauntered through the garden arm-in-arm while Alma kept an eye on her children—and on you—from a distance.

“It’s almost time that I go,” Grammy said sadly. “Maybe some time soon I’ll be able to stay a little longer and catch up, but I have some important business to attend to.

“I have informed Miss Peregrine that, if the circumstances allow, I shall return in a few days’ time. Will you still be here next week, say…Monday?”

“My plane leaves on Saturday.”

That was meant to be your answer, but your grandmother looked up at you curiously for you to continue.

“Grammy,” you sighed, “I can’t just  _stay_  here. Mom and Dad are waiting for me at home and I have a new job set up…I can’t just stop living in the real world.”

“What’s realer about  _that_  world than this one here?”

For that, you had no answer. This merely felt like a fantasy, like a strange dream, especially now that she was involved…

“I just mean, Chickadee,” she tried to explain, “that not everyone lives the life they expect to. How many friends of yours have jobs in their field of major?”

“None that I can think of.”

“I don’t see much difference between those circumstances and the one you’re living right now: this might have nothing to do with the Social-ology that you studied, but that doesn’t mean that you wasted your time, here  _or_  there.

“Speaking of time, it’s almost mine to leave,” she said, and, rather than say her individual good-byes to the children, she merely waved as she passed, guiding you toward the cairn. Once inside the cave, she kissed you on the cheeks and pulled you into a strong hug. “I love you, Chickadee. I trust you’ll follow your heart on this.”

“I love you, too.”

She scanned your face; her eyes fell, as if she knew the decision you were going to make and disapproved, then turned to exit the cairn, transforming mid-step by the entrance into a small, yellow-orange bird with deep brown wings. The moment she was out of sight, you sat with your back against the stone wall and cried.

 

“(Y/N)?” someone called.

Teardrops were streaking down your cheek; you did your best to wipe them away, but even then your eyes were swollen and red, your collar wet with salty tears. There was little you could do to hide what you were feeling.

“(Y/N)?” It was Hugh. He peered into the mouth of the cairn, followed by a thin cloud of bees. “Are you alright?”

You must have looked a mess, sitting cross-legged on the ground, face entirely wet from crying.

“Yes, sweetie, I’m fine,” you lied. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

But the boy was young, not stupid; he came in slowly, as if afraid of startling you, and sat by your side. His bees were little more than a quiet hum at the entrance, diving in and out of some purple-blue flowers you couldn’t name.

“We love you,” he said, “so we won’t be angry with you if you leave. We understand that this is all…confusing. You have a family and stuff at home—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you cooed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder; he slumped into you the same way Claire had that morning, like a child who was in pain and trusted you to remedy it. “I love you all so much. You  _are_ family—don’t you ever forget that.”

You stayed like that—leaning against each other on the cold, dirt floor of the cairn—for what seemed like hours before Hugh finally lifted his head again to ask something that had been on his mind for a long time.

“Do you love Miss Peregrine?” His voice was frail, like the last traces of a message that barely persevered through static.

You looked away; perhaps you shouldn’t answer this, but you were going to.

“Very much.”

“But are you in love with her, I mean?”

A pause. Even the bees stopped their buzzing to listen.

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you’ll stay?”

Your head snapped; you met his eyes. There was something hopeful, something broken, and you knew it would tear you apart to say no…You nodded, slowly but surely.

“You should tell her that,” he whispered, somewhat defiantly. Then, standing, he reached out for your hand and guided you back to the house with a sluggishness to his step. “And when you’re done, tell everyone else, too. I won’t say anything.”


	20. Everything

Some days pass too slowly, like you’re viewing the world through a frosted pane of glass, or looking up at it while falling through water. The images and memories are distorted. Your reactions, subsequently, are strange and drawn out. It was how you felt now, laying in your shared bed in the farthest room from the toilet: there was a sharp pain just behind your right eye and a dull throbbing across that hemisphere of your skull. You couldn’t stand or move, afraid to call your nausea’s bluff—the restroom was too far away to chance throwing up. **  
**

Alma had drawn the curtains tight as possible, in your room and the hall, so that the light wouldn’t bother you. She gave strict instructions to her children to not make any unnecessary noise in the house, brought up some tea and pills, helped you out of your uncomfortably rough clothes—she’d thought of _everything_  it seemed, and you weren’t used to having this level of help with a migraine.

“Thanks,” you rasped, sounding rather intoxicated.

“Shush,” she whispered. “Get some sleep. I’ll bring up dinner when it’s ready, or will the smell bother you?”

You didn’t answer. You knew she’d said  _something_ , but your brain couldn’t make sense of it.

“I’ll make something mild for you,” she concluded.

You felt something touch your cheek gently and thought she might have kissed you—though, you admitted, it could just as easily have been her hand as her lips. Perception wasn’t your forte at the moment. Then light poured in through the door and was quickly replaced by tranquil darkness; you were alone…and you realized, slowly, as if looking back at the scene while falling through water, that Alma was still there somehow—in the drawn curtains, in the clothes folded at the end of the bed, in the dregs of tea on the nightstand. She was in every little thing she did, every evidence of her love.

She chose to leave, to care for her children, but she promised to be back, physically, as if what she had already done for you was not enough, and it pained you to think that this decision had ever been difficult to make. The next time you saw her, migraine or no, you would tell her: you were staying. That was it.

 

But you slept through dinner and, when you awoke, there was a tray beside the bed. A plate of toast and a fresh cup of tea. You quickly drank it down, then, realizing how late it must be, went downstairs to find her.

“Are you alright?” Fiona asked as you reached the first landing. “Do you need Miss Peregrine?”

Your vision was still a bit blurry, but you hadn’t noticed until you’d reached this point, where the lights and sounds of the children moving about first started to revive the nasty throbbing in your skull. If you weren’t careful, you’d end up with another headache.

“What time is it?”

The girl shrugged.

“After Reset,” she said. Then, guessing your next question, “The headmistress is in the kitchen.”

“Thank you,” you said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder.

You made your way gingerly down the hall and to the kitchen, where Alma was cleaning the last of the dishes. She turned just as you reached the doorway.

“(Y/N),” she smiled. “Darling, are you alright?”

“I just…” you shook your head, “just wanted to see you, that’s all. There’s something we need to discuss.”

Her face fell. She resumed her work at the sink, staring out the window at the evening sky; like any other night, the stars shone vibrantly against their inky backdrop, obscured here and there by stormclouds and warm rain.

“I don’t—”

“ _Discuss unpleasant matters_. I know. I  _know_ ,” you sighed. “That’s why I had to find out about Hollows and wights through Emma, and why we have literally never had a conversation about my parents that didn’t end in you avoiding me, and why I can’t come to you when I feel like this, because you don’t want to know about everything that’s happening inside of me, just the stuff that doesn’t hurt you…”

You stopped to breathe and realized you were crying; Alma’s shoulders were shaking, even as she braced herself against the sink. The sharp pain behind your eye started creeping back and you shut your eyes. You thought about taking a seat at the small table to your right, but chose instead to rest your forehead against her shoulder. As you pressed against her, Alma softened, leaning back into you.

“But I know how hard that is for you,” you sobbed into her neck. After a few sniffs, a minutes to regain your composure, you wiped the tears from your eyes and cheeks and felt some of the pressure leave your head. She still had not turned to look at you, so you pulled her closer, wrapping your arms around her waist.  She was a bit taller than you, so your chin only barely cleared her shoulder. “Miss Alma Peregrine, I love you with all of my heart. I can’t leave you.”

She dissolved; such a powerful woman was reduced to weeping, holding on to you for dear life while crippling fears and anxieties seeped out of her. Alma had held in too much for too long.

You couldn’t have imagined how this must have looked to her children, who had gathered in the hall to see what had transpired—their headmistress, crying as they’d never seen, slouched against you,  _you_  who was also wet with tears. But she was happy, smiling into your shoulder. Her sobs turned to wet, guttural laughter, sweet and pure as it was nervous and she pulled you into a salty kiss.

“I love you, too,” she hiccuped, before leaning back in.

Enoch could be heard ushering the others into the adjacent room, but with little success. Claire and Bronwyn tangled themselves around your legs and Fiona and the younger boys were all clapping and shouting as if watching a match. Emma and Olive were silent, and you wondered whether or not they were crying, too.

When Alma straightened up again and wiped the tears from her eyes, then from yours—stopping only to rub your cheek with the pad of her thumb—they all watched her, eyes wide with anticipation.

“Children,” she smiled, large and toothy and genuine despite her intention to remain proper. “Well, I suppose you already know what I’m about to say.”

“She’s staying!” Bronwyn sang.

“Yes.” Alma squeezed your hand, then began to usher you—and, subsequently, the children—out of the kitchen and toward the stairs. “And we can discuss the rest tomorrow. Now, it’s time for bed.”

 

Discussion was definitely waiting until tomorrow, not just for her charges, but for you as well. She has found other uses for her mouth at your lips, your neck, your shoulders and breasts and palms. An hour went by with the two of you locked, legs tangled, her lips and tongue trailing along your skin, until there was a knock at the door. The  _bedroom_  door.

“Miss Peregrine?” The girl’s voice was frail, breaking as she reached the final syllable.

“Emma,” Alma answered, “Give me a second, sweetheart.”

Then, to you, she whispered, “Get dressed.”

You were only in your panties and Alma, in her thin nightgown, was nowhere near presentable. She made her way hurriedly to the dresser and pulled on a robe, then tossed one of your t-shirts at you, advising you to just keep your bottom half beneath the covers. You had barely just gotten the thing over your shoulders when the door suddenly opened, revealing Emma in a light blue dress, her arms curled up towards her chest and cheeks blanched.

“I’m sorry, I just…”

“No need to apologize,” Alma hushed the girl, taking her in her arms and leading her inside. “Do you want to talk? Or do you just want to sleep?”

“Will it bother you if I stay in here?” she asked you, wiping her eyes.

“Oh, of course not!” you said. “Would you rather I leave? I can sleep on the couch if—”

“No, it’s fine.”

You watched as they took their places—Alma on her back near the center of the bed, Emma on her side, laying half on top of her headmistress with one hand over her stomach and one cheek resting on her shoulder. It wasn’t entirely dissimilar from what you imagined  _you two_  looked like when you slept together, only there was a distinctly mother-child inflection in their mannerisms that you could neither define or distinguish from the rest.

Alma kissed the top of the girl’s head and looked to you, giving you a signal you couldn’t quite read. Not finding any other meaning, you said good-night to each of them and pecked Emma on the cheek. Alma, you decided to tease, if only until your charge had fallen asleep. When it was clear you wouldn’t give her a kiss, the ymbryne narrowed her eyes playfully at you and turned away. You noticed that she was rubbing circles into Emma’s back.

“I know that Miss Waxwing and you,” Emma began, sniffing, “I know that you discussed Abe…You were right, weren’t you? He’s…”

Alma’s hand stopped in its ministrations and settle’s on the girl’s hip; the other wrapped around to draw her closer.

“He lived a very long, happy life,” was all she said. Her tone was soft and kind as you’d ever heard it, but you couldn’t help but notice a hint of anger—who at?—when she continued, “Whatever happened, he’ll still be here tomorrow.”

You turned to watch as Emma choked on her own sobs, digging her face into her ymbryne’s shoulder.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“It’s n-not h-h-him! It’s—it’s not re-real-ly him!” she hiccuped. “I wish he would st-stop.”

You reached out and gingerly took her hand, which had been clenched into a fist beside Alma’s ribs. Emma’s eyes snapped to you in surprise, but she recovered, intertwining your fingers and falling back to Alma’s chest, breathing somewhat repaired and eyes clear of fresh tears, to lay her head down and try to sleep.

“I love you,” she mumbled some time later, when somnolence had begun to steal the edges of her words.

“We love you, too,” Alma whispered.

Alma didn’t often beg, but she looked to you now, with that signal in her stare; she was asking you to give her children the same love and care as she did, despite the fact that you had only known them a week, and despite your lack of ymbryne-like intuition and skill.

You were more than happy to accept that responsibility.

“Always.”


End file.
